


Not Until Then

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Discussions of Suicide, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Family, Identity Issues, M/M, OCD, Sex, allusions to underage sex, discussions of mental health, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: Two men sit in a room, and talk about Jim Moriarty. One of them is Sherlock Holmes, the other is Jim's brother. Hijinks ensue.Hijinks do not ensue.





	1. Intro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with glorious, glorious fanart by [aion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aion). [Check it out!](https://i.imgur.com/eL1Vppy.png) all;dkfj I love it so much. :D

 

 

 

‘I just don’t see the point, Sherlock. You’ve got lots of work to do, you’re spending time with the child, Baker Street is only just repaired. But now this? What can you possibly hope to gain?’

Mycroft has been different since the incident at Sherrinford, but in some ways nothing changes. Sherlock knows his objections are mostly for show, a vain attempt to regain some of their old footing. But some of it is genuine concern, and Mycroft is less good at hiding it than he was. Perhaps he doesn’t try so hard. Perhaps he, like Sherlock, doesn’t have much interest in things going back to exactly how they were before. It’s not as if they _could_.

But there’s no use making things too unfamiliar. Sherlock’s not all that inclined to spell out the reasoning behind this request.

‘Insight, that’s all. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask, and it’ll hardly stretch your resources.’

‘It’s not my resources I’m worried about.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes, an exaggerated motion. ‘I hope you’re not about to throw more sentiment into the mix, brother. There’s hardly a subject about which I could be _less_ sentimental.

He expects a quick comeback. The silence he receives makes him glance up, and then blink at the way Mycroft’s looking at him. ‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just your assumption that no one’s noticed…’

‘…noticed what?’

Mycroft sighs. In the dim light of his office, he looks old. Exhausted. Sherlock has no idea why he insists on working in a basement with no windows. ‘Nothing. Fine. I’ll have a file ready for you on Monday. I doubt it’ll make interesting reading.’

Sherlock thinks he’s wrong. He expects to be fascinated. He expects…he’s not sure. Something. There’s a hint of anticipation about the whole affair, and it could just be the promise of new information to fill out a particularly blank jigsaw puzzle, but maybe not. It’s not unlike the feeling he gets at the beginning of a case. A certain type of case, anyway. The type he hasn’t been given in far, far too long.

‘Sherlock?’

He’s on his feet, re-tying his scarf. Another glance shows Mycroft vacillating, a look that is more common these days but still incongruous. He’s not sure he likes it. He’s used to his brother’s smug self-confidence; there’s something reassuring about it, because it could always be relied upon.

‘Tell me why you’re interested.’

He smooths the scarf down, and pulls his coat closed. One button; two. 

‘Because I think I might owe him that.’

He leaves before Mycroft can object. Before he can think too closely about his own words, or his reasons for doing this at all.

 

*

 

John offered him his car for a couple of days, even after Sherlock refused to tell him where he was going. So did Mrs Hudson. He declined both and booked the train instead, which is why he’s sitting comfortably in First Class on a sunny Tuesday morning, with the file on the table in front of him. It’s not thick, and he’s read it enough times that the smallest detail is committed to memory. He can see the photograph perfectly in his mind’s eye, but his hand still itches to flip the cover over and look at it again. He makes himself resist for a full hour, when London is far behind and everything around is green; until after they’ve brought him his complimentary tea and single-serve biscuit; until he only has twenty minutes until Birmingham and will have to put the thing away to change trains anyway.

He flips the cover. His stomach lurches, as it does every time. And in the end, he doesn’t need the twenty minutes. He has to close it and look out of the window instead, because the closer he gets to this journey’s end, the more convinced he is that he’s not ready to get there at all. 

 

*

 

He’s the only person to step out of the train. It’s a tiny station, more a siding than anything, two train changes from the West Coast mainline. Everything is surrounded by fields. He can see the carpark through a chain fence, big enough for ten vehicles, and with only a thin hedge separating it from a herd of cows. There’s nothing on this side of the track but a low building holding the stairs to get to the other platform, and the exit. He walks through to the side of a country road, with a lay-by holding a single post that denotes a taxi rank, and twenty yards along, a broken-down bus shelter with graffiti on the inside walls. There’s a poster advertising the local village’s annual pantomime, two years out of date.

He comes back to the platform, and leans on the wall. There’s a tea shop on the other side, next to the ticket office. His eyes travel over the customers, a queue of three people, all elderly, one of them with a dog on a lead. There are six more in the cafe, but a second glance tells him they’re not all travelling. There’s a door on the other side of the shop to welcome passing trade, as well as people catching trains. 

He raises his head, and sniffs. It’s spring, and getting warm, but the countryside is still more earth and rain than flowers and dew; more than a hint of cow, farms, and diesel from the bus that just zoomed past at far too high a speed for such a small road. Everything’s quiet in the wake of it. The voices of the people buying tickets don’t carry through the glass. The only sound is grass being munched and, after a minute, an ancient tannoy crackling into life to announce the next arrival. The voice is old, round with West Country vowels, and barely intelligible. Sherlock’s eyes sweep the opposite platform one last time, and pass over the pristine digital display that says there’s half an hour until the scene will be bothered by any more traffic. They settle on the roof of a house he can see a few hundred yards down the track.

He rolls his lips together. He could just wait, buy a coffee, and go back. But he already knows he’s not going to do that, so he takes the stairs and crosses the tracks, stopping at the ticket office to confirm a suspicion with the clerk.The road is a little wider here and has a footpath to one side, but there is still next to no traffic. In the five minutes it takes him to reach his destination, only one car has passed. The whole place screams of some picture-postcard idyll from the days of Wordsworth and Coleridge; Sherlock cannot understand the appeal of it despite his own childhood wandering in nature - or, come to think of it, _because_ of that - and the peace and quiet grates as he walks. Maybe because it suggests this whole trip might be a waste of time.

But he’s here now, and whatever reservations he has get set aside. Reason and logic settle over nerves, and when the wall to his left stops to allow entrance onto the driveway, he pauses and takes the house in. It’s a cottage really; old, white stone with a bit of ivy on one side. Mid-nineteenth century, built when the tracks were laid, but there are modern touches; double glazing to defend against the noise of the railway, and a garage to the side, against which leans an expensive-looking mountain bike. It’s not locked up and there’s helmet dangling off the handlebars, but the bike isn’t muddy which suggests it was about to be used rather than having just been out. It’s this detail that sets him moving. He doesn’t want to wait around for hours for him to come back from a ride, so he rings the bell, and looks behind him. Trimmed lawns, no weeds. There’s no evidence of children, nor actual care; everything is tidy, but not loved. There’s no car in the garage either, even though the villages in this part of the world are spaced miles between. 

The inner door opens. Sherlock turns as a figure appears in the porch, and watches it freeze through the glass. He feels frozen too, because it’s hard not to when looking into this face. 

‘Hello. I’m Sh-‘

‘I know who you are.’

James Moriarty - James _David_ Moriarty; an important distinction - is holding the door handle too tight. His face (that _face_ ) wars between fury and…fear, Sherlock thinks; it’s so hard to tell, it was always hard to tell, and he’d meant to be reassuring and as kind as he could be, but in the end all he does is stand there and wait to see what will happen next.

‘I was going out for-‘ Moriarty’s breath catches, and anger gives way to resignation. His grip loosens on the door, and he steps back. ‘…you’d better come in.’

 

*

 

The inside of the cottage reflects the outside. It’s neat, almost spartan. The sofa and armchairs are not expensive, the coffee table is from IKEA, and there are clothes hanging on a dryer over the radiator. Sports clothes, that weird material cyclists and runners wear, nothing classy. There’s a neat row of muddy trainers by the fireplace, all of them stuffed with newspaper for some reason; the television is small and cheap, and the bookshelf seems to hold exclusively non-fiction.

The weight of the stare on him is awful, and he has to face it eventually. So he does, and is no more prepared this time around.

‘Which name do you use? What should I call you?’

‘Mr Moriarty?’ The sarcasm doesn’t last more than a second, and is shrugged away. ‘David. JD, if you like. James, if you want to be a bastard. I don’t care. Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, David.’

‘Come through. I don’t want you in here, pulling me to bits. Though you probably already have.’

Sherlock does not confirm or deny ( _single, broken, years since any significant relationship, loner, non-smoker, no pets, broken, chronic insomniac, OCD tendencies, no politics, cooks, tee-total, smart, broken, no family),_ and follows him to the kitchen. It’s nicer than the living room, full of light, with big windows looking over the rail tracks to an expanse of fields and hills. David gestures to a chair at the long wooden table and Sherlock sits, considering why he would deduce brokenness in someone and whether it’s out of sentiment. _Broken_ doesn’t mean anything. It’s non-specific, and lazy, and a personal judgement he’d never usually make. But it’s difficult to see the exact cause in David, unless it’s simply too obvious to need analysis. Maybe being Jim Moriarty’s brother is enough.

‘Sugar?’

‘Two, thank you.’

A mug is placed in front of him. David sits at the side of the table, ninety degrees away so they’re not forced to look straight at each other. Sherlock half-smiles, and straightens the coaster under his tea.

‘What?’

‘You’re clever. And a lot more polite than your brother. He would have sat opposite, and stared.’

David blinks. Sherlock realises at once that…shit. 

‘Really? _Really_? You walk into my house with no warning, and the first thing out of your mouth is a comparison?’

‘A favourable comparison. And it wasn't the first thing out of my mouth.’ Sherlock stops, forces himself not to continue, and sighs. ‘…my apologies. That was rude, and this must be difficult. I assume.’

‘You _assume_?’

‘Yes, assume. I don’t know how you might react, because I have no idea what sort of relationship you had with your brother, nor whether you know anything about me, or the circumstances of his death. I don’t-‘

David has gone white. Sherlock blinks, and rewinds, and curses again.

‘You did know he was dead?’

‘No. I mean…yes. I don’t know.’ Sherlock frowns, but David doesn’t look at him. ‘Yeah, I did, of course I did. I had a letter from some lawyers, but that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘It told me he was _believed_ dead, even though there was no body to back that up. He has to be gone seven years before it’s official.’

‘And they’ll release his estate to you?’

He has the feeling he’s said the wrong thing again.

‘I don’t want his money.’

Sherlock nods, and sips his tea. David stares at his bottle of water, which allows a moment of discreet examination. Mycroft’s file says he’s two years older than Jim but in the flesh, they could be twins. The same stubble, the same hair, the same jaw, and nose, and cheekbones. The same eyes, although the light in them is different. David’s is dim, and worn out, which lends a certain sadness to his expression. Jim was fire and mischief, and crackling, beautiful insanity. The difference is night and day, and Sherlock looks back to his tea as something twists hard in his chest.

‘Why are you here?’

Sherlock puts the mug down, and adjusts it so its dead in the centre of its coaster. David is watching, pulling one thumbnail across the pad of his index finger. Sherlock gestures with his head, and earns himself an expression of gratitude before David touches the base of the cup, ensuring its in the right place. 

‘In all honesty, I’m curious.’

‘That’s it?’ David sits back, his face guarded. He has a scar on his chin, a thin line in the crease.

‘And because I thought perhaps you might have questions.’

‘I’ve had questions for five years, and you’ve never come before. No one has. I don’t even know where he’s buried.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’ And perhaps not for the reasons David thinks. ‘But something happened recently, and it occurred to me that perhaps I owed him this.’

‘You’re here,’ David’s brow furrows. ‘Because you think you owe him.’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s possible I’m doing exactly the wrong thing, and if so I’ll go away. You don’t have to answer any of my questions, or tell me anything at all. The answers are no use to anyone but myself, so you’re not damaging anything by holding your silence. I would simply…appreciate some of your time.’

The tannoy from the station sounds out down the track, only the tinny echoes of it floating up the line. The next train must be due. David’s eyes pull to the clock on the wall, and Sherlock finds himself suspended, caught on his profile, seeing Jim as he would look in one of his quieter moments, if he had quieter moments, if he ever made this age at all. 

‘So you just want to talk?’

‘That’s all.’

‘I have to think about it. Can you come back later? I was going out for a ride, and I… need to clear my head.’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I can come back this evening.’

David looks uncomfortable with making him wait, but steadfast. And Sherlock gets it even if it’s frustrating. He’d prefer to do it now, but if he has to wait then he has to.

‘You’ll miss the last train. There’s a hotel in the village if you want to phone them.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Come back at seven. I’ll make dinner.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I’d prefer to. I don’t eat out, and I don’t like talking with no other distractions.’

There’s a hint of familiar steel in his voice. His accent is just like Jim’s in tone, but the cadence is regular and the traditional Dublin twist to certain words is gone, smoothed out by travel and time. Still, he sounds enough like him. Sherlock nods.

‘Dinner at seven. I’ll be here.’

David walks him to the door, and locks it behind both of them. Sherlock starts to say something else, but he’s left standing, watching, as Jim Moriarty’s brother gets onto his bike and just rides away.

He’s not sure what he expected. He built an idea off the information in the file, and it’s not accurate. He also harboured a hope of something he can’t even put a name to. _Recognition_ might be closest. That perhaps whatever spark drew Jim towards him might also reside in David, so he could examine it and perhaps finally understand it.

And there was that other hope too, so small and quiet he didn’t know it was there until now, when it dies. Sherlock watches him turn his bike left at the end of the driveway, and disappear behind the hedge. James David is a very different man than James Francis, and Sherlock realises he doesn’t have a clue how to deal with either of them. 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

There’s the village, and then a small town two miles further on which consists of one main street of shops - the usual generic ones, and a few local craft and art outlets - a church, four pubs, and a brief sprawl of ugly ex-council houses before the roads wind out, and go back to upper-middle-class affluence. He spends an hour there, getting the lay of the land and looking for anything unusual, then walks back to the village and checks into the hotel. The woman behind the desk takes one look at him, and says, ‘up from London, my love?’ which at least makes him smile, and reminds him that the deductive power of old ladies - at least in some areas - should never be underestimated.

‘Last room left and we’re all booked up tomorrow, mind. There’s a rambler’s meeting this weekend.’

‘One night is fine, thank you.’

It’s a perfectly adequate room. Sherlock puts down the bottle of sparkling water he’s bought for tonight, and lies down to think. David Moriarty is not his brother, but he’s still tricky. He has no reason to lie, but no reason to tell the truth either. And Sherlock wants the truth. He wants it badly. He does not think _truth’s boring_ ; or at least, not until he knows it. It’s probably why he wants it, isn’t it? So that Jim Moriarty will cease to be an unknown, and can finally rest in his head. Knowing him is the only thing that can let that happen.

He rises from meditation at half past six, readies himself, and walks the mile back up the road. His finger touches the doorbell as the hands of his watch click on to seven pm. David opens the door, stands back and lets him in. Sherlock notes he hasn't been back too long, because his hair is damp and he smells strongly of mint toothpaste and aftershave. His fingertips are too crinkled and waterlogged for a simple shower. He must have to scrub his bike clean every time he takes it out. He wonders, as he sets the water down, whether he’s always been OCD or if it developed over time, as a consequence of sharing a house with chaos in human form.

‘I don’t deserve wine?’

‘You don’t drink alcohol.’

David gives the first hint of a smile, and picks the bottle up. ‘Schwepps. A good vintage. Come through, I have to watch dinner.’

He’s wearing jeans, and a generic kind of shirt that nevertheless shows him to be in quite remarkable health. Jim was always well presented, except when he wasn’t on purpose, and he was strong through the upper body. Sherlock had wondered whether he’d boxed in his youth, but it was never relevant. In his thirties he wore the evidence of being rich and tied to a computer, with a tiny paunch at his middle. David could be a professional athlete; not a single pound of extra flesh on him, nothing but lean muscle, shoulders cutting down to a trim waist. And he hides it on purpose, Sherlock thinks, watching him walk with hunched shoulders and a curve to his spine. If it were Jim, he’d probably walk around with no shirt on for the rest of his life.

‘Did he kill himself?’

The question takes him by surprise, though he doesn’t know why it should.

‘Yes.’

David pauses with the fridge door open, the water halfway to being placed down. ‘How?’

‘He shot himself.’ 

David doesn’t move. Sherlock watches carefully for signs of distress, or denial, or anger. The bottle wavers once before it’s let go, but that’s all.

‘Did you see it?’

‘Yes, I was there.’

The unspoken _why_ descends like a thick blanket on a hot day, immediately suffocating. He waits and waits, but David says nothing. He just closes the fridge and stands looking at the door, tension written in harsh lines down his back.

And then he relaxes, and turns. His face is impassive. ‘I’m not surprised. It was always likely. Sit down, dinner’s nearly ready.’

Sherlock sits in the same chair as earlier, uneasy. He hadn't been able to guess how David might react, but this still feels odd. Estrangement doesn’t always mean not caring - if they even were estranged, it’s impossible to say - but maybe the acceptance of this news is just confirmation of something everyone who met Jim must have seen. That he was dangerously unbalanced, and was surely never able to live.

‘Will you tell me about him?’

‘What do you want to know?’ David picks up a spoon, and looks Sherlock over. His eyes are still tired. ‘What he was like as a kid?’

‘Yes, that. And anything else you want to say about him.’

He bites back the desire to say _tell everything_ , because one evening in a kitchen would not be long enough and it wouldn’t be fair, even though the desire to know is eating him alive. David watches his eyes for a long moment, maybe reading something in them. Then he shrugs, and turns to stir the pasta.

‘When I was four and he wasn’t quite two, I came back from my first half-day of school with a bookmark, a sheet of smiley stickers the teacher gave us as a present, and a worksheet for my parents showing the things we’d be learning in our first term.’ He stops stirring, sets the spoon down along the edge of a chopping board, and checks the oven. ‘It had the letters of the alphabet, numbers one to ten, and pictures of, I don’t know, a ball and a cat, things like that, with the word written underneath. I showed him. I pointed at the number one, and the cat, and said ‘one cat’.’

Sherlock can see where this is going, but doesn’t interrupt. He watches David’s face, which is utterly expressionless.

‘He looked at the paper, and pointed at the one and said, ‘one cat. Two balls. Three…dogs, I think it was. He went down all of it, linking the numbers to the pictures, matching the alphabet letters to the words under the pictures. Then he picked up the bookmark, and read the words off it. He taught himself basic reading in about ten minutes.’

Sherlock is at a loss for how he’s supposed to respond. David isn’t looking at him anyway, his focus now out of the window and thirty-five years away.

‘Then he said, ‘good boy’ - about himself - and took my stickers as a reward. I never saw them again.’

He can’t help but huff a small laugh. David turns, resigned but almost smiling too. ‘That’s almost my first memory, and it was a blueprint for the next sixteen years. I know you’re a genius too, so you probably get it. He was…brilliant. Untouchable. No teacher knew what to do with him, he just _absorbed_ everything and waited for more, until there was nothing else they could give. They used to talk about not moving him along, that he needed depth of knowledge and not just to learn everything pat. He’d go and read for a few days, and then recite chapter and verse what they thought he didn’t know. Not just parrot stuff; everything linked, everything always _linked_ with him, like it was all joined up and he could see every connection. Did you ever see him read a book? He’d never just read a story, even when he was young. He used to interpret author’s intent, break it all down into pieces - structure, narrative, tone, word choice, the writer’s fucking life history - he’d destroy a story to understand it, and…Christ, I don’t know. Still enjoy the tale as well, somehow. He ruined books for me. I think he enjoyed doing it.’

Of course he would have. Sherlock has pulled back under the weight of sudden bitterness spewing forth, but of course it’s understandable. Being normal next to _that_ can’t have been easy. And it explains a lot about Jim too, because being brilliant and surrounded by banality…Sherlock gets it. That’s his life, for the most part. But he had Mycroft, and his genius mother and now, he knows, Euros too for a while. To be like that and have no one - - he can’t imagine how lonely that would be.

Except he can, because he saw it. _So boring, isn’t it? It’s just…staying…_ and that expression of despair, before he forced it off and said _oh well_ , and went back to playing the game.

‘Your parents weren’t gifted?’

‘No. Just him.’ David drains the pasta, and puts it to one side. ‘And no, we couldn’t afford to send him to a better school, or get tutors, or whatever else it is you’re about to suggest could have been done for him. He didn’t need them anyway. He taught himself.’

Sherlock frowns. ‘I wasn’t about to suggest anything.’

David’s lips thin. He visibly reins himself in, perhaps realising he’s projecting. His eyes aren’t so tired now though, lit with an anger that looks strange on him, but would fit Jim perfectly. The resemblance is enough to make Sherlock dizzy for a brief second, trying to reconcile the two. 

‘Sorry. It’s just he was…difficult.’

‘Was he analysed?’

A shrug, and David pulls chicken from the oven, puts everything on plates and pours water from the tap. Sherlock murmurs thanks when it’s set in front of him, though he’s never felt less like eating.

‘He was IQ tested, and the school sent him to a therapist when everything started to go wrong. But even at six, he’d just act perfectly and fool them all.’

‘What went wrong when he was six?’

David shakes his head, resigned again. ‘That’s just when they did something, or tried to. It had been coming since he started school.’

‘How so?’

The silence goes on so long, he thinks he’s not going to get an answer. Then;

‘He was really excited on his first day. Do you know why?’

‘The chance to learn new things?’

‘No. Or…maybe yeah, in a way. He wanted friends.’

Sherlock blinks. 

‘He’d read about them. He’d seen mine. I was all right with people back then, so I had quite a few. He assumed it’d be the same for him.’

Oh.

Sherlock doesn’t want to hear this bit. He doesn’t need to; he knows exactly what’s coming. But he can’t make him stop after asking for exactly this, so he tries to eat to block it out.

‘He was so disappointed.’

Sherlock spears pasta, and tastes nothing.

‘He cried, and he hardly ever cried. He cried a lot that first week. After two days, it was ‘why don’t they like me?’ After five, it was ‘why are they stupid?’ I don’t think he- -‘ David breaks off, and swallows. Sherlock doesn’t look at him. ‘He was never the same after that. By the half term, about five weeks in, he’d hardly talk at all. I tried to get him to come and play football, but he’d just sit in the playground with a book. By Christmas - bear in mind, he was only just five at this point - things were going missing, or getting broken. And he was never anywhere near it. It was suspicious, not because he was stupid enough to incriminate himself, just because there was never any hint at all he was involved. Only someone clever could be behind it all, so everyone knew it was him. But nothing was ever proved. It just made the teachers wary, which pushed him away more, which made it all worse.’

And there, Sherlock thinks, but for the grace of God, go I. 

Not that God has anything to do with it, but it’s a story so relatable as to be painful. If he’d been in school that young, it might well have been exactly the same. He and Mycroft were homeschooled until eleven, and it was difficult enough then to figure out how to talk to children his own age. Jim’s isolation is suddenly brutally, painfully clear. Alone, in a sea of people. The worst kind of loneliness.

‘It’s your turn, I think. Tell me how you knew him.’

Sherlock cuts a neat slice of chicken. David has yet to touch his, and has, he realises, been watching him all the time he’s been speaking.

‘All right. But you’ll have to tell me what you know about he and I already, or some of this might be difficult to hear. Do you know what he did for a job?’

‘Not specifically. But then he turned up on TV having tried to steal the Crown Jewels, so it’s obvious he was a criminal.’

The bitterness is back thicker than ever, and Sherlock suspects he knows why. The clues are in the file. 

‘Yes, he was a criminal. _The_ criminal. A mastermind at the head of a vast underground network. I can’t - won’t - go into too much detail, but he had…well, he was very good at his job.’

David is still watching, steadfast, his gaze alive with some kind of horrified fascination, or maybe just not sure he wants his lifelong suspicions confirmed after all. It’s too late now.

‘And I’m very good at mine. People would go to him to plan and execute their crimes, and people come to me to solve them.’

‘So you stumbled over each other.’

‘No.’

David doesn’t look surprised to hear it. Sherlock suspects he knew it started earlier. 

‘He’d been aware of me for a long time. But we only met eighteen months before he died. He was going to kill my friend and I, and then I was going to kill him, until he got a better offer. And then I barely saw him again, until his trial.’

‘You testified against him.’

‘Yes. And afterwards, when he walked, he broke into my flat and we had tea.’

He probably shouldn’t have said that like it’s nothing, even though it’s hardly the strangest thing to happen on any given work day. It had been…fun. Sort of. A meeting of minds; the kind he craves, and the kind he misses. But David looks like he doesn’t understand, which he wouldn’t, of course.

‘That’s not when he died, though. There was that article about you in the paper. That was him.’

‘Did you believe it?’

‘Of course not. I _know_ he’s real, I had to live with him for sixteen years.’

‘I could still have been using him to make myself look clever. No matter. We met again the day it came out. He forced me to jump off the roof.’

‘…how would he do that?’

‘He was going to kill my friends if I didn’t jump. And in the end, to leave me no option, he killed himself.’

David is staring, his mouth a little open. His fingertips come up and touch along the scar on his chin, and Sherlock is suddenly curious as to how he got it.

‘He killed himself to make you kill yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘So he failed.’

‘…no. No, I don’t think he failed.’

They’re locked in eye contact. For all his bitterness and the coldness of this morning, David is undeniably engaged. HIs eyes are bright, curious, and it’s like looking into a version of what Jim might have been, if he had ever found a way to connect to the world with anything but violence.

‘You think he wanted to die.’

‘Yes. So do you, don’t you? You didn’t need me to tell you he killed himself. He must have always been unhappy.’

‘So if you’re not surprised, and I’m not surprised, why did you feel the desperate need to come _here_? You could have come any time in the last five years. Why now?’

Sherlock opens his mouth, but the words stick. He can’t talk about Sherrinford, and he won’t talk about Euros. But even though they cross his mind, they’re not the reason he’s here either.

‘Because…not long ago, I met a young woman called Faith, who carried a gun in her handbag. I took it from her, and threw it away.’

David’s face is blank, until it crumbles into recognition. Sherlock doesn’t need to speak for him to understand, but he needs to say the words just to get them out of his head.

‘I could see she was suicidal. I never saw it in Jim. And maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if I had, because our entire interactions were based on him trying to kill me. I don’t owe him anything for that.’ It’s not true, not quite, but he can’t articulate exactly what he means because he doesn’t know. ‘I told her that it wasn’t her life to throw away. It’s the people left behind who suffer. I may not have been able to say that, if I hadn’t watched him put a gun in his mouth.’

‘Are you saying you suffered because he died?'

Sherlock can’t understand what he’s seeing. David’s almost smiling, and he could swear he looks amused, but it could just as easily be disbelief. He has Faith - Euros - and Jim warring in his head, and he hadn’t really meant to say this out loud even if it’s true.

‘Yes. I think I have.’

 

*

 

They eat in silence for a while, Sherlock because it’s polite and David, he suspects, because it’s both necessary for health and a part of his routine. The chicken and pasta is cooked well, seasoned just right, but he barely tastes it. He wants to ask more about Jim when he was younger, where he studied, was there any impact when he disappeared, where their parents are. At the same time, he doesn’t want to think about him. The images of that drug-fuelled dream are present at the front of his mind, that voice saying, _not in your mind, I’ll never be dead there_. How true it is. He doesn’t know how it came this far from those few meetings, just from knowing there was someone like him out in the world. It was a heady thing for him to discover, at the time. What must it have been like for Jim, after years and years of there being no one?

But he knows the answer, because he saw it on the roof. If he dwells on that moment at all, he can still feel the warmth of the hand in his. He’ll never forget the look in his eyes in the seconds before he died.

‘Are you all right?’

It’s hard to swallow. He sits back, and breathes through his nose. David glances his way, then gets up. A moment later, a fresh glass of water is pushed into his hand.

‘I didn’t think anyone else would be sorry he was gone.’

‘That’s why I came, I expect. So you’d know.’

‘Yeah. I appreciate it.’

David sits back down. Sherlock swallows, and sets the glass on its coaster. David adjusts it so it’s right, and then they’re ready again.

‘So you’re sorry he’s gone?’

‘He was my brother. I can’t say I liked him much, and he never let anyone love him. But he left a mark. It was easier to deal with when I knew he was alive.’

‘He’s the reason you’re out here in the middle of nowhere.’

David pulls back in his seat, his expression fixing. ‘What do you know about that?’

Sherlock takes the file out of his pocket, and smooths it on the table. ‘I had to find you, and this information was collected. That’s all of it, I promise you.’

‘You spied on me.’

‘I needed to know where you live. It’s just that, and your vague employment history. A guess at where your family was living in 1989, and when you went back to Ireland. Nothing detailed.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘I have friends with access. I work with the police a lot.’

He’s not going to give Mycroft’s name or position unless David gives some indication he already knows. At some point before he leaves, he needs to discover how much contact Jim had with his brother. The price, in the end, of Mycroft’s help.

David slides the file out from under his fingers, and blinks as he opens it up and sees his own face staring back. Surprise turns to anger, and Sherlock can see his back teeth grind together in the working of his jaw. David says nothing and just reads as he eats, fastidious with every bite. It doesn’t take long.

‘My life, reduced to four pages and a bad photograph.’

Sherlock frowns. It’s a perfectly good photograph, showing his face clearly and not in an unflattering pose. Unimportant; he lets it go, and finishes the last of his chicken. ‘Jim erased all record of himself, digital and paper. I don’t know where he went to university, where he lived, or at what age you all came to England. Erasing himself meant-‘

‘-erasing us too.’

‘Yes.’

David’s fingers tighten on the pages, and then let them go. They slip untidily to the table top, and Sherlock watches him looking at them. David drags in an exhausted breath, mutters, ‘bastard,’ and starts arranging the mess, lining the paper up with the edge of the table, adjusting and adjusting so they’re perfectly on top of each other. But every time he touches one edge another knocks out of place, and he’s forced to keep going.

‘Are you medicated?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Very well. Would it help if I took the paper away, or make it worse?’

‘Worse. It’s in my head now. It won’t go away.’

Sherlock draws a parallel, finds sympathy, and nods. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to go outside for a cigarette.’

‘Go ahead. Don’t blow any near the house.’

He leaves him to it, and exits out the front door. It’s a chilly night, because even if the days are warming up it’s still early Spring, and there aren’t any clouds to stop the cold. Sherlock draws his coat tight around him and walks to the side, leaning against the garage as he lights up. He’s grateful for the burn of smoke and air, because it helps him think and he really _needs_ to think now. He’s not sure if he’s doing himself any good, or David, or if anything useful can really come of this. Trying to decipher Jim Moriarty in one evening is a Herculean task, and maybe all he can hope for is enough insight that he can say to him in his mind, _I know you. I made an effort, I tried to see you in the end_.

Even after everything at Sherrinford, he would not consider himself a man driven by emotions. He accepts that he has them now, and is not as desperate to block them away as he once was. But he still values the calculating properties of his mind, and all his logic centres are telling him that he’s doing this for his own selfish reasons; that he’s been curious about Jim from the beginning, and annoyed that so little information about him is available. Now he has a golden opportunity to fill in the blanks, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

But before, he would have been relentless in his pursuit and not spared a thought for David. Now, he wants to be careful. He might _have_ to be. Quite apart from wanting the man pliable in order to gain the most from him, he’s dealing with someone who has suffered for his name and face. He won’t sacrifice one thing for the other, not any more. There are no lives riding on this, no one to bring to justice. His own peace of mind is not an altar he’s willing to sacrifice an innocent man on.

He finishes his cigarette, and instead of walking to the front he heads to the patch of light falling from the kitchen window. David is still at the table, still trying to line the paper up. His head is bowed, and he looks sick with himself; tired of his affliction, tired of it all. He looks like Jim did on the rooftop. The resemblance makes Sherlock’s chest contract unpleasantly, but he doesn’t step away. How can two men look so alike, and be so different? There’s no reason they should share any personality traits at all, of course, and the question is obviously coloured by the strength of impression Jim left behind. Even Sherlock’s brain won’t let him disassociate the two of them to degree he needs to. David was angry he drew a comparison as soon as they met, but it hasn’t stopped him doing it. It’s all he’s doing; watching one man, and thinking of another, and if he’s honest…well, no. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he wishes they were more alike. He doesn’t think so. But he can acknowledge the tiny hope he’d had on the train this morning, that that same draw would be present. He hasn’t felt that with anyone else barring The Woman, and wasn’t she acting on Moriarty’s advice the whole time? It was never her plan he was trying to unravel, it was _his_.

He forces his thoughts back to the present. David seems to have succeeded with the paper. He sits with his head down, both his palms pressed against the side edge of the table like he’s trying to hold it away from him. Sherlock’s gaze travels down his back to where his shirt is pushed into the waistband of his jeans, and then along the wiry muscle in his arms, up his neck to the shock of untidy black hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are closed. Maybe he’s fighting the need to create order at every turn, like he can keep chaos from swallowing him if he can just make enough things straight.

Sherlock watches his chest stop moving. David’s head tilts a fraction, like he’s listening to a far-off sound. And then…

…and then, his left hand moves to his left knee. It’s an instantly familiar gesture, one burned into Sherlock’s hard drive. Every other thought falls away. Sherlock feels his eyes widen and his mouth drop open, a gasp stuck behind his teeth. The cold, the silence of the country, the light of the windows, all melt to nothing as he watches David ripple his fingers _(beats like digits)_ over his bent leg, pushing a slight emphasis on the roll of his thumb.

For a few seconds, he can’t breathe. His eyes snap up to David’s face - and it _is_ David’s face, it _is_ , but all he can see is Jim. Jim sitting there with his eyes closed and his hair a mess, slumped in exhaustion but still, always, drumming his own beat. Except that wasn't his beat, that was theirs. He knows of no one else who ever saw Jim make that move, and there’s no reason anyone ever should. That was part of _their_ game.

He whirls to the side, back into darkness. His shoe makes a noise as it shifts on the gravel, but it barely registers. He blinks rapidly, playing the movement back, checking he saw what he thought he saw, not just what he wanted. Why would he want that? (Except wasn’t that his secret hope, wasn’t he sad when he realised he was wrong?) He doesn’t want that. It was just…

Logic. _Logic_. They’re brothers. He doesn’t know what characteristics they shared, and he doesn’t know when they last talked. There are any number of explanations; indeed, they’re lining up in his brain, each one ready to squash down the live-wire burst of shock. Coincidence _(rarely so lazy),_ or wishful thinking, or his brain overlaying a strong moment from his past onto something innocuous.

Sherlock breathes out, and looks back through the window. David is rinsing the plates at the sink, ready for the dishwasher. Just a too-thin, tired man. Sherlock calms himself, and walks back around the house to let himself back in. He has to see this through. He has to _know_ what he’s doing here, and then there’ll be no need to come back.

David glances around when he enters the kitchen, just to acknowledge he’s there. Sherlock leans on the wall, his palms flat behind him.

‘I’m sorry if the file upset you. I probably didn’t need to show it to you.’

‘I’d rather know than not.’ 

‘Can I tell you what it told me?’

‘Apart from my address, what I look like, and where I’ve been all my life?’

‘Yes.’

David tilts his head. ‘Might as well.’

‘The only important thing it told me is what brought you to this place. You were abroad most of your life. We have no data, but I suspect you’re some kind of railway engineer. There’s a detail about an apprenticeship when you were young, and then you left. Where was it? Some place in need of infrastructure experts? Africa?’

‘Middle East.’

‘Mm. For whatever reason, you came back and you were working in the main terminal in Birmingham. You weren’t the station master though. Again, we have no details. I suspect Jim was taking care of keeping them to a minimum, either with or without your knowledge.'

There’s no reaction at all. Sherlock gives him a moment, then moves on.

‘But then it all changed. Suddenly, we know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re here in the middle of nowhere, doing a job a retired bank clerk could manage on one hand. How many trains even come through here a day? Ten?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And it’s because he died, isn’t it? For whatever reason, you didn’t feel you could stay where you were. You’re a clever man; not in his league, as you’ve already admitted, but extremely capable. You’ve lived abroad, you no doubt speak other languages. But you come here. Were you waiting for answers? Did you expect him to leave you instructions? He had connections through the entire world, including the Middle East, why not go away again? We both know what he was like; even after he died, he could tell you what to do.’

David had been drying his hands on a tea towel. They pause in mid twist now, still as the grave until Sherlock pauses for breath. Then he turns, and his expression is incredulous.

‘You think I’m working for him. Or with him.’

‘It’s one possibility among many.’

‘Is _that_ why you’re here? This is an investigation?’

‘No. I promise you, no.’ He steps forward. He’s not trying to intimidate, he just wants to _see_. ‘When Jim Moriarty first appeared in my life, he was a ghost. We had nothing. We didn’t know he existed until he chose to show himself. After that, only the odd detail and most of them he gave up himself in return for something. Hardly reliable. We’ve built a picture, but for some reason you’ve never been part of it. And yet you’ve been here for the last five years, when you could go anywhere else.’

David stands his ground. He’s the same height as Jim, and Sherlock looks down at him from one foot away. But even this close and searching his eyes, there’s nothing in them that brings recognition.

‘He told me you were clever, you know. And also stupid.’

Sherlock says nothing.

‘He spoke about you once. _Once_. I saw him a month before he disappeared, for twenty minutes. Our last farewell, though I didn’t know that at the time. All right?’

‘All right.’

And? There has to be more. But this information is not being pulled out of him, it’s not costing him anything to say. Sherlock has the impression he would have told him anyway, if he’d just asked nicely.

‘He was right about you being stupid, I see that. You jump to the idea he and I were in business, or _could_ have been in business, and you miss the most obvious thing of all.’

‘Do I.’

‘Yes.’ 

David folds his tea towel, each corner perfectly aligned, and steps away to hang it over the handle of the oven. Then he straightens, and looks Sherlock in the eye.

‘I was ashamed.’

‘…of?’

A moment of silent struggle.

‘I knew he was a criminal. He spoke about you, and a month later your suicide was all over the papers. There’d been all that business with the trial.’

‘So? You were already here when I jumped.’

‘Yes. Because my face had already been around the world. _Look_ at me.’ 

He points at his face, his eyes sharpening with sudden anger. Sharp enough that Sherlock’s chest twists again.

‘ _My_ face. My _name_. Plastered over the world’s press, screaming ‘crime of the century’. Where the fuck was I supposed to _go?_ ’

‘But it wasn’t you.’

‘Do you think people care about that? Ordinary, everyday people, not people like you, or him, or your doctor friend. I was stared at constantly. Endless questions. Fear off women behind shop counters. People used to cross the road, and then call the police. _James Moriarty’s broken out of prison, he’s in Sainsbury’s_. His little game ruined my fucking _life_.’

Sherlock takes a step back. It wasn’t a loud shout, but it has weight. And yes, of course, he’d missed the obvious. He always does with Jim, doesn’t he?

‘I see.’

‘Do you? It doesn’t sound like it. _Help_ him? _Work_ with him? I’ve spend my. Entire. Life. Keeping myself apart from him, or trying to find a way through to him, or wondering what he’s doing, or trying not to think about it because it was never going to be anything good. And you know what’s sick?’

‘No.’

‘I still wish he were here. He’s still my brother. I still…sometimes…have trouble believing he could have been as bad as I think he was.’

Sherlock does not have the heart to tell him he was worse. Whatever David thinks, Jim was definitely worse.

He forces a deep breath in, and pauses to think. In the end, he just says, ‘I’m sorry. People tell me I miss the human element sometimes. I thought I was getting better, but clearly not. I apologise.’

‘You don’t need to be sorry. Despite the way you’ve been looking at me and seeing him all day, we are complete strangers. And I don’t think you’re objective.’

‘Oh?’

‘No. Was there something between you two? Apart from all the attempted murders?’

It takes a long moment before he even grasps what David means, and another one to get his head around it. ‘What? No.’

David shrugs. ‘All right. Just checking. It wouldn’t be unlike him either.’

Sherlock wants to tell him it would definitely be unlike _him_ , but elects to keep his mouth shut. ‘Would you like me to leave?’

‘I think I would, yeah. Have you got what you wanted?’

He wants to be kind, and lie. Instead, he shakes his head. David examines his face calmly. ‘Then come back tomorrow night. I’m working all day. Dinner at seven.’

‘What time’s the last train? I can’t stay another night, the hotel’s full.’

‘There’s one at ten. You’ll be alright.’

‘Then yes, I’ll come back. Thank you.’

‘I would say ‘welcome’, but I’m not sure you are. I suppose we’ll find out.’ David picks his glass up and has a drink, then points towards the front door. ‘That way. You can see yourself out.’

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws hands up* I give up. *hits post*

 

 

 

Sherlock checks out of the hotel at 10am, after a restless night. At first he couldn’t sleep, and then he couldn’t stop dreaming. Jim’s face, Jim’s laugh, Jim standing on that waterfall ledge.  _Not in your mind, I’ll never be dead there_. His eyes, staring like big brown buttons sewn onto a child’s soft doll, as he told him he owes him a fall. And then they were gentle, pressing up close, devouring him whole and dragging him into heat and fire, his hand warm and careful until Sherlock jerked awake at the final bang. 

He can push fatigue away and not let it bother him, but it’s harder to get rid of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock’s glad it’s a cold morning. The air bites at his face and keeps him grounded in today, and there’s a thin veneer of frost on the pavement which means he has to stay alert so he doesn’t slip. He walks as far as the town because he’s been wearing these clothes for two days, buys jeans and a thick jumper, and then gives in to the need for breakfast. The day stretches out before him, and comes to a halt at 7pm. He doesn’t know what might happen after that. He can only lay out what else he wants to know. Details are the least important part, and the thing he craves most. He wants to know where Jim went to university, and if he played a musical instrument, and what he was like when he wasn’t the showman with a gun in his hand. He wants to know if he liked dogs, or played sport, or ever broke one of his own bones. But this is all indulgence. He needs to know if David has connections he’s hiding, though he’s inclined to think not. He needs an answer on their parents, though there’s no evidence to suggest they’re alive. 

Most of all, he needs to know why Jim did it. Not just killed himself, but tried to take Sherlock with him. He’s never fully grasped ‘ _I owe you_ ’, unless Jim had simply been angry for twenty years because someone realised he murdered Carl Powers. It seems unlikely, because having come to that realisation, nothing came of it. Jim got away with murder. Was his ego so fragile that the simplest knowledge of detection made him start a life-long grudge? He doesn't think so. He thinks it has more to do with ‘ _he wanted friends_ ’, and a five-year-old’s anguish that he would always be apart from his peers. 

That might have seemed an incomprehensible reason a few years ago. Now, not at all. Look at Euros. There’s a reason she and Jim hit it off so well, isn’t there?

Sherlock finishes his tea, and stares out of the cafe window. The windows are fogged over the radiators, and he’s surrounded by old people in for an eleven o clock tea break, chattering away about nothing. His toast has gone cold and chewy, and the label of his new jumper is prickling the back of his neck. It’s a reminder that he’s here, it’s today, he’s sitting on this plastic chair. The people in his head are long gone, either in the ground or still in that cell, soaring in a world of crying melody. If he picks up his phone, he can talk to his brother about all this, or he can call John and ask about Rosie, or even ring his parents to check how they're doing. He’s been trying to do that more these days, not just because of how everything’s been but because he always used to leave it to Mycroft. And that wasn’t fair, was it? It might have been fun to play the bratty youngest child, but he’s not the youngest any more. It helps to remember. Even if nothing comes from today, at least David will know that someone else has been thinking about Jim all this time. That he left an impact elsewhere too. 

It doesn’t make what he’s about to do any less reprehensible, but he hopes David never finds out about that.

 

*

 

There are a total of six baggage lockers in the tiny station. Sherlock dumps the plastic bag with his laundry into one, and walks to the single manned ticket counter. The clerk is a man in his sixties; _retired bus driver, sedentary all his life, three cats, heart condition, diabetic_ ; his belly stretches the cheap fabric of his uniform shirt, and there’s a new ketchup stain on his tie. His name badge says ‘Tony’, underneath greasy finger smudges that he's made a perfunctory effort to clean off since breakfast.

‘Help you?’

‘I hope so. Is the station master working today?’

‘Yes, he is. Have you got an appointment? He’s on the phone with head office at the moment, but I can give you a shout when he’s finished. Might be a while, mind.’

‘No no, not necessary. I just had some rather bad service on a train last week, and I was told to take it up at the station of origin. I was hoping for a chat, but I don’t have time to wait. I can come back.’

Tony looks affronted, and straightens up in his seat. ‘Bad service? You can talk to me, I can pass it on. We don’t get many complaints in here. He’ll want to know.’

‘Oh well, I’m not sure it was a fault _here_. The train was very late and very dirty, but when I was in town this morning there was no one there to talk to.’

Tony’s face clears. ‘Oh, right. Thought it couldn’t have been us. Everything’s clockwork in here.’

‘Oh? That’s unusual, isn’t it? The news is always full of how bad the rail network is.’

‘Yeah well, they want to come see how we do it. And the trains come almost straight from the yard, they only stop in town first. Not much chance for them to be late. If there was a problem with yours, it wasn’t us. We’ll deal with it though, sir, of course. He likes to take these things in hand himself, so how about you come back when you’ve got more time?’

Sherlock takes the contact detail card he’s given with a grateful smile, and walks out of the station. The card tells him exactly what he expects to see: the company email address, customer helpline and website. And because it’s a small station, the ticket desk phone number, and the name of the manager; J. David Moriarty. 

What’s more interesting is the computer Tony was using, because it wasn’t the cheap mass-ordered deal normally found across the UK’s train system. There was no branding on it at all. it quite likely means nothing, but Sherlock had wanted a look at it since he arrived yesterday, and saw a tiny, run-down station with a fully functioning digital timetable up on the wall. Perfectly normal in any of the mid-to-large stations in the country, of course. Less normal in the middle of nowhere, when only seventeen trains come through the place every day; when the two small stations before this one hadn't had such a thing. And it all runs like clockwork, Tony said. _No_ railway station in England runs like clockwork, not one.

But by far the most pertinent detail is that David is at work, and engaged on the phone. Sherlock covers the ground to his house quickly, and walks straight down the drive. He should have scanned the house for cameras last night, but his mind was elsewhere and it had been almost dark by the time he got here. He does it now, and sees none on the front, none on the side. There’s a faint red glow in the garage, up by the ceiling, but a furtive glance shows it to be a sensor for an electronic door-opener. A bit odd maybe, as David doesn’t have a car, but a longer look through the window shows evidence of several bikes in various states of repair. The space gets used, so it’s probably a nod to convenience. 

He slips his shoes off on the paving slab by the back door, and picks the lock easily. There are no other houses nearby, and the track behind the house curves before reaching the station. Even if someone were looking this way, he can’t be seen. And he’s only giving himself twenty minutes, maximum. He doesn’t feel good about doing this, but it’ll save time and awkwardness later. 

A quick scan of the kitchen shows nothing changed from last night, except the dishwasher has been emptied and everything put away. The living room looks unused. There’s a DVD collection under the television that he hadn’t had the chance to look at yesterday. They’re mostly foreign films, with Arabic titles. He opens the case of one or two, and finds nothing unusual. 

Upstairs, then, which is the real reason he came. He wants an office, a computer, _something_. No one is entirely disconnected from the world any more, no matter how hard they might try. He hasn’t seen David use a mobile phone, but he has to have a computer. There has to be more to him than fitness, and OCD, and a desire to distance himself from his brother.

The first door on the left opens onto a bathroom. As expected, it’s spotless and everything is lined up at exact angles, in size order. There’s not a drop of water on anything, which means David has to wipe everything down after he’s used it. A glance in the laundry hamper confirms dozens upon dozens of white face flannels, all wet.

Across the landing, a spare bedroom. Nothing whatsoever in it, other than a carpet, curtains, and the furniture. Even the wardrobe is empty, not even used to store spare clothes. Next to the bathroom, David’s bedroom. It’s better, in that it at least looks used. The bed is made with military precision, and all the clothes in the drawers are folded perfectly. It’s an ideal way to conceal something underneath; even Sherlock dare not disturb the crisp lines, because he’ll never get them back exactly in place. But there’s nothing to find, not even porn. There’s a Dan Brown novel on the nightstand, and several mountain biking magazines in the drawer. A television mounted on the wall shows the last station watched was the BBC News channel. Sherlock flicks it off, and heads to the last door. And then, finally, paydirt in the form of a home office, and a computer.

The passcode is tricky, which takes him close to the time he’d allowed himself for this. But he doesn’t want to back away now, and the view out of the window lets him see the road up to the station. If David were to walk home for any reason, he’ll see him coming long before he gets here. So he types things based on the few interests he knows about, and comes up blank. It’s weird, because guessing passwords never usually takes time. In the end he rolls his eyes at himself, and taps Jim’s date of birth into the text box. The day that changed David’s life forever. What else could it be?

The browser history shows only ordinary websites. Internet banking, online grocery shopping, mountain biking and running information. A weather website, and a GPS app for off-road trails. He opens that up, and sees a meticulous record of every ride David has ever taken, by the look of it. Five year’s worth of biking around the West Country. Nothing before that, but this computer looks to be five years old too. He confirms it in the system information, and it makes sense; if this is when David moved here, or came back to England permanently, why wouldn't he buy a new computer?

The photo files show various views off high peaks, and picturesque landscapes of the country. There are no other people in them. The documents folder holds letters to banks, insurance documents, work information. The finance app shows his modest wage, his bank statements - David has savings, but nothing out of the ordinary for a man who was probably successful as an engineer in the Middle East, where wages for skilled work tend to be good. Nothing to suggest hidden assets, gifts from a wealthy brother, or unexplained income.

He opens the email with the same password that unlocked the computer. There are a few labelled tags. _Finance_ , _travel, work._ And then, stuck in the middle along with all the mundane things: _Jimmy._

Sherlock’s heart rate kicks up a notch. He glances out of the window before clicking, and…is disappointed at once. There are only two conversations. The second one is dated three days after Jim’s trial - not quite the ‘month before he disappeared’ David claimed, but close enough.

_Davy_

_I’m passing through on Wednesday. Meet you 7pm at yours. Get decent coffee in for a change._

_JM._

Sherlock sits back in the chair. He’d hardly expect Jim to be effusive, but barking orders at his own brother isn’t easy to read. Of course, he and Mycroft are often worse, but they see each other all the time. This email is a note to a minion, expecting them to be available, no enquiry after their wellbeing, no thought as to whether they have other plans. Maybe it is like Jim; he hardly cared about imposing himself on others. But Sherlock finds he’s disappointed. That, perhaps, he had hoped Jim might be nicer when he wasn’t acting for effect, or intimidation.

The reply says;

_Fine. See you then._

_David._

He would dearly love to know how that conversation went. Twenty minutes, and the last time they ever saw each other. Would he have been kinder in person? He suspects not. He suspects Jim, in full knowledge it would be the last conversation they ever had, thought it was _funny_.

Sherlock stabs his finger on the trackpad to close the thread, and opens the other. It’s dated six months earlier, so it predates David’s arrival in this house. And it’s a picture of a train, grainy and blurred and from the eighties, judging by the clothes of the people milling about on the platform. It’s a steam engine, something vintage, Sherlock doesn’t know. Old, anyway. And in the foreground, a young boy with jet black hair and eyes that, in the slightly unfocused view, look like two black buttons in a child’s raggedy doll. 

He leans in to examine it. There is no way to tell which of them it is. Perhaps if it were clearer, or there was another person standing close so he could determine relative height and perspective, or see if that scar on David’s chin is present. But none of those things are there. There’s just a train, and a boy on a platform on a sunny day, wearing a striped blue-and-white T-shirt.

The message reads, _Found this and threw it out, but thought you might want a copy. JM._

Sherlock’s brow furrows. Despite his disappointment at the last email, it’s hard to imagine these words being typed by Jim Moriarty. It’s not hard to imagine him throwing an old picture away, but the fact he went to the trouble to send David a copy must mean something, mustn’t it?

_Thanks. David._

And that’s it. That’s their correspondence for the last five and a half years. 

Sherlock clears all evidence of having used the computer, shuts it down and stares out of the window. None of this matters, really. In a normal case it wouldn’t even be interesting. He can tell himself he’s doing it for proof of David’s non-involvement in criminal activity, because it’s true, but it’s not the only reason. He wants to know Jim; he wants to understand. The man isn't making it easy but in that, at least, he’s consistent.

Sherlock checks he’s left no sign of himself anywhere upstairs, and walks back down. He’s halfway out of the door when a thought strikes out of nowhere, and he turns back to open the cupboard above the kettle instead. There’s a few varieties of herbal tea, predominantly chamomile, which makes sense given David’s insomnia. There’s a small jar of Kenco instant. And at the back, with dust on the top, a small jar of some brand of coffee he’s never heard of. The name is Arabic, as is most of the lettering. He’s careful when he picks it up, so as not to disturb the dust. It’s almost full, and when he opens the top he’s treated to the most delicious smell of rich, strong beans, ground to fine powder. There can’t be more than a spoonful gone from the top.

Sherlock screws it back up, and looks at the base. There’s a printed use-by date, and it ran out four years ago. So. This is Jim’s decent coffee. This is what he drank the last time he saw his brother, and David never threw it away. Did he just not want to waste it, or was he hoping Jim would come back for another?

Impossible to say. Sherlock sets the jar back exactly where it was, closes the cupboard and leaves the house. He feels heavy, and listless, and if not exactly guilty about breaking in, then at least wishing it had been more fruitful. At least he’ll be able to tell Mycroft he truly looked for a connection, but it looks more and more likely there isn’t one to find.

 

*

 

Sherlock rings the doorbell precisely at seven. David is right there to open it. Sherlock hands him a bottle of elderflower cordial, and both of them allow a smile.

‘It’ll be flowers next, and then we’ll need to have a conversation about something that’s not my brother.’

‘Oh, but for the lack of time.’

David’s face does a strange thing, and it’s too late when Sherlock realises that could be taken in a way other than he intended. Attempting to fix it will only make it worse, so he lets it go and is relieved when David does the same.

‘Come through. Dinner’ll be an hour so you can ask your questions first, and still make your train.’

‘You didn’t have to change your schedule for me.’

David snorts quietly, and opens the fridge. ‘I didn’t.’

He can’t, obviously. Sherlock sits down, nods thanks at the sparkling water set down on his coaster, and doesn’t watch David adjust it.

‘Go on, then. Though I warn you, tonight I expect some answers in return.’

‘If I can, I’ll answer anything.’

‘You mean there are things you won’t talk about?’

‘There are things I can’t talk about. Matters of national security, and some that involve my friends in a very personal way. But mostly, because I don’t know. I can tell you how Jim was with me, but I think it’s you who can provide the emotional context.’

David looks thoughtful. Sherlock takes the opportunity to look him over. Just like yesterday, he’s freshly showered and has also been cleaning his bike, so he went for a ride after work. He looks even more tired than last night, with great dark circles under his eyes, but his body language is less defensive. Maybe talking helped him. He obviously doesn’t do it much.

‘So you tell me what he did, and I tell you why?’

‘I don’t know if it can be that simple but, essentially, yes.’ He’s tempted to launch straight in with a big one, but that wouldn’t be fair. So when David raises his eyebrows to say _go on_ , he just asks, ‘where did he go to university?’

‘Trinity.’

He went home, then. It immediately gives shape to a life, being able to pin it into certain times and places. And it means he can’t have been watching what was going on in the Holmes family too closely, no matter what was implied. He’d have been busy with his own studies.

‘What did he study?’

‘Double honours, Astrophysics and Mathematics. I don’t know why he chose Trinity, because he had offers from everywhere and they all threw money at him. Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard, CalTech. The American universities offered him the world on a plate when he was fifteen, and he acted like they were babies trying to charm daddy with a smile. But you met him, you know what an egotistical little bastard he was. He didn’t just write them a letter saying ‘no’. He went to every interview, knocked their socks off, made them love him, and then told them he’d think about it and never went back.’

‘Fifteen?’

‘For the Americans, yeah. They kept asking after that, but he ignored them. Oxford and Cambridge would take him at sixteen, and not before. Trinity wouldn’t let him near the place until he was seventeen, even though he’d already passed all his A Levels. They offered him the least money too, but I don’t think he even considered anywhere else.’

In a way, it makes sense. In a way, it doesn’t. He lets David watch him with his unspoken question, and eventually says, ‘maybe I can tell you why, on this one.’

‘Maybe you can.’

‘If he finished sixth form at sixteen, perhaps he wasn’t interested in going straight to university. If he didn’t need the money, he already had an income. And if Trinity were offering him less of a grant, they wouldn’t expect as much time in return as the others, particularly the Americans.’

‘So you think he was already building his business.’

‘I do.’

David nods, as though it’s a suspicion confirmed. He does look a tiny bit amused as well. ‘But I think you’re overlooking an important factor in his choice, Mr Holmes.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mm. You.’

‘I lived in England. I don’t see how that could factor. And I stayed in school until I was eighteen.’

‘England’s just a jump across the water.’

‘If it were important to him, he could have gone to Oxford. Even starting two years sooner, we would have been there at the same time for one year. Longer, if he’d stayed for his Masters.’

‘Oh, you’re Oxford?’

Sherlock nods, then concedes, ‘post-grad at Cambridge,’ but the switching allegiance seems lost on David, and it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s a far more important question, and it leads right into where he wants this conversation to go.

‘So you knew he had an interest in me? You said he only mentioned me once.’

‘As an adult, yeah. As a teenager he didn’t mention you at all, but it’s not so easy to hide your interests from someone you share a house with. Particularly an older brother looking to hide his porn magazines, and finding little brother’s got there first.’

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, but David’s gaze doesn’t waver. ‘Except it wasn’t porn with him. Only it really was, wasn’t it?’

‘You’d have to ask him. No doubt you did.’

David snorts a scornful laugh. ‘No one had to ask him that, Jesus Christ. If the little slut had pictures of a boy hidden around, the only weird thing was that they weren’t on full display. He wasn’t exactly shy.’

‘In a Catholic household, when it was still illegal in Ireland?’

And now David’s face is openly derisive. Sherlock is reminded where he’s seen that expression before, and hears _just kill yourself, it’s a lot less effort_. 

‘Yeah, because _my brother_ would care if it was illegal or not. And we were in England at the time.’

‘Yes yes, it was a stupid comment. I feel like you’re trying to make a point, and probably not one I’m interested in. His sex life isn’t relevant.’

‘You’re wrong.’

It’s said so flatly, Sherlock is pulled up short. He dithers for a second, then blinks rapidly. David is staring at the opposite wall, and he looks…bored. He looks like Jim.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, you’re wrong. You said you wanted me to provide the _why._ You already gave me the _what_ , when I asked you if there was anything going on between you. You said no. I’m saying there was, simply because if he was watching you and then _not_ coming into my bedroom and giving me the exact dimensions of your cock and what you liked to do with it, something was very wrong.’

Sherlock opens his mouth, but the only sound that comes out is ‘uhhhm.’ He’s not sure why David has gone on the attack, if that’s what this is, but he can’t find a point in the midst of it. He latches onto the first logical question, and fires it out. ‘You said everyone hated him. How was he-?’ 

He circles a hand. David raises his eyebrows at it, and for a second it looks like he’s going to make Sherlock spell it out. Then, he sighs. ‘Oh, that had all changed. He turned over a new leaf when he was twelve, and-‘ his accent thickens, and takes on a sing-song quality, perhaps quoting something. Sherlock doesn’t recognise it. ‘-never was a boy more loved.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s simple. He was withdrawn through primary school, yes, to the point where he never spoke unless asked a direct question. I mean _never_. And then he started secondary school, and he opened up a bit, at least for a while. Until the spring term, probably. He got a bit of a gob on him, maybe because he was getting more attention from the teachers. He never knew when to stop though, until he did. And he stopped completely. Didn’t say a word for months.’

Sherlock tilts his head in silent question. David touches two fingers to his glass, drawing precise lines parallel with each other through the condensation. 

‘He got bullied. Really, _really_ bullied. They hardly ever touched him physically, but they never left him alone. And it was his own fault.’

‘How so?’

David takes a minute, clearly ordering his thoughts. There’s something odd about the tightness of his shoulders, the line between his eyebrows. Like he doesn’t want to say it, but knows he has to.

’Jim was advanced in all areas. That includes his interest in sex. Remember what I said about how he read? He didn’t just learn facts, he didn’t just figure out where babies come from. He went into detail, and it was obvious that included reading up on how men enjoyed it with each other too. I don’t think he even once considered _not_ being queer. He walked into my room one day, sat on my bed, and asked what I thought it’d be like to fuck a man. He was about ten. I thought he was just trying to wind me up, but he wasn’t.’

Sherlock is not getting how this is relevant, and he really doesn’t need to know. Jim was never subtle about his sexuality, but it wasn’t important in the scheme of things. ‘I don’t think-‘

‘Just listen.’ David shifts on his seat, leaning forward, engaged in a way he hasn’t been since they met. ‘When all the other little kids were getting the ‘birds and the bees’ talk, and health lessons, and learning about puberty, he’d stick his hand up and ask the best technique to suck a dick. It was his way of letting them know they were boring him, but he did it so often he ended up getting suspended. That was him when he first went to secondary school, you understand? He’d obviously decided to push back. But then he ran into a kid who wasn’t intimidated, and it all went wrong for him.’

A light clicks on in Sherlock’s head. _Ohhhhh._

‘There was this lad called Carl. He had three older brothers, so there wasn’t much that outraged him when it came to talk like that. And Jim was flaunting his intelligence as well, it wasn’t like he was trying to make friends. He talked to everyone like they were idiots. Carl didn’t like it, Carl’s friends didn’t like it, Carl’s brothers didn’t like it.’

Sherlock wonders whether David knows how this story really ends.

‘They ganged up on him. They did beat him up to start off with, but only once or twice. It didn’t bother him the way they wanted it to, so they put their heads together and came up with-‘ 

David hesitates. Sherlock narrows his eyes. Something that really bothered a young Jim Moriarty? It’s hard to imagine, but whatever it is, David doesn’t look happy to be remembering it.

‘-basically, they played along with the shit he started by trying to get in their face. They asked him if he learnt how to suck dick after all, and who was teaching him. You get the idea.’

David’s hand curls around his glass. Sherlock watches his knuckles turn white, and frowns.

‘It spread. He couldn’t walk down the corridor without someone giving him their friend’s phone number for a joke. Which doesn’t sound bad, until every day there were new stories about Jim being in the headmaster’s office because he’d been caught blowing a teacher. He’d been seen in the park the night before, being bent over the swings. How you only had to give him your lunch, and he’d drop his trousers for you in the toilets at break time. Hook him up with someone you hated, so he could give them AIDS. You know? It started in his class, then his whole year, and then most of the school. It was relentless. There were only five hundred kids, everyone knew each other. He didn’t have a way out of it.’

Sherlock thinks, _yes, he did_. But what he says is, ‘they took his weapon away. They used it against him.’

‘Yeah, they did.’

He can see how much Jim would have hated that. He can see it echoed down the years that followed; the meticulous planning, the way he kept himself above it all, the way it was never him in the firing line, until the end. When he destroyed himself it was on his own terms, and calculated to take his enemy with him. Carl was beneath him. Sherlock was not. Jim wanted them to go down together.

So now he knows why Jim killed Carl. It doesn’t justify it; just explains why a boy with a particular skill set and a particular way of thinking, acted the way he did. What’s interesting now is David’s reaction. He’s pale, even under the bright lights of the kitchen. His jaw is tight, and his mouth is a hard line. There’s anger in his eyes so clear, he really could be his brother. Outrage on his behalf? Guilt? Something else?

‘Did you try to stop them?’

‘Not at first. I thought it was a joke that’d blow over. By the time it was clear it wouldn’t, it was out of control. I tried then, but any time I opened my mouth, I had kids telling me he must be letting me have him too.’

‘Teachers-’

‘Made only a token effort. He’d hardly gone easy on them either. And this was the eighties, it’s not like the PC and protected world we have now. Boys were expected to sort it out for themselves, at least in our school.’

‘Did it get better after Carl died?’

‘Kind of. There was th- - how did you know Carl died?’

Sherlock tries to smile, but David’s memories sit like a thundercloud, magnifying the heat from the oven and the harsh overhead lighting. 

‘It was my first case, in a way. I knew there was something wrong with it when I saw it in the papers. We lived fifty miles away from Brighton, which put it in our local news area, and of course the London papers took it because that’s where he died. It was hard to miss.’

‘What do you mean, there was something wrong with it? He had a seizure. He drowned.’

Sherlock had meant to ask about Carl. That was where he wanted to take the conversation tonight, because he wanted to know if Jim’s fixation was as strong as he’d suggested. He didn't mean to come at it from this angle, and with the realisation that David never put two and two together.

He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. No. Jim killed him.’

David looks at him, his mouth slightly open. His voice comes out flat, shocked into a monotone. ‘He can’t have.’

‘Admitting it was how he introduced himself to me properly. He left Carl’s shoes in the flat below mine, strapped a bomb to a random woman in a car park, and gave me twelve hours to solve the case.’

Sherlock pushes his coaster off at an angle. It snaps David’s reverie as he immediately moves to put it right, but his eyes remain wide and staring.

‘Jim poisoned him. That’s why he had a seizure in the water. And then he took his shoes, and held onto them for twenty years. That’s how he came to know my name, because I tried to make the police look for them.’

David is very focused on finding just the right place for the coaster. His lips are clamped tight together, and a muscle works in his jaw. Sherlock frowns again, this time at the twitch of an eyebrow, and notes that David’s hands are shaking. The oven whirrs away in the background, blowing a delicious smell of meat and vegetables into the air; light bounces off the sparkling clean tiles, adding a surreal edge to a room that is warm, and heavy, and full of a man who has no right to cause this much pain anymore. Sherlock is almost moved to reach out, but David lets go of his task, puts his elbows on the table and his face in his hands, and just sits.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told him. He’s always truthful with clients, but David isn’t a client. Still, he can’t see any benefit in letting him keep illusions about Jim when he didn’t have many to begin with.

‘He was twelve when Carl died. _Twelve._ ’

It’s a rough whisper.

‘I know.’

Sherlock looks at the table, and lets him be. It says it all that David is not calling him a liar, or expressing any disbelief, or trying to justify it. It’s simply the pain of acceptance, which is no doubt difficult even if it’s not surprising. And it can’t be much fun to find out you shared a breakfast table with a murderer, and one so accomplished at aged twelve that only one other person even suspected their guilt. Jim could have killed any one of his family, and got away with it. Sherlock isn’t convinced that’s why there has been no mention of parents so far, but he’s not going to jump to any conclusions.

There’s a movement in the corner of his eye. He looks up to David, whose hands are sliding apart over his face. The words _are you all right?_ line up, and then stutter and fall on his tongue. 

David’s hands are pulling the corners of his eyes. They hold there for a second, and then two, and three, and the gaze staring out is black and malevolent, and…amused, and bright, and Sherlock’s breath disappears from his throat, caving his chest in because he’s in Kitty Riley’s living room, and Jim is laughing at him, _aren’t I clever?_ and he’s staring back and trying not to smile. Because even as the world crashes down around his ears, he can’t not admire the craft, the skill, the sheer audacity of taking the highest institutions in the land, and using them as chess pieces on your own personal board.

 _Jim_.

He almost says it. The face he’s looking at smiles, and blinks, so Sherlock smiles and blinks, and David puts his hands down…

…far enough for Sherlock to realise it wasn’t a smile at all, it was a grimace. 

He breathes. His heart throws itself against his ribcage, and it’s too hot under his jumper. The moment is gone, leaving him with a burn of disappointment, shock, and empty confusion. His throat feels too thick. He clears it, and has to order himself to get back under control. These kind of mind tricks are not helpful. 

‘You said Jim turned over a new leaf. In what way?’

David takes a drink of water. His voice comes out close to a monotone, but his shoulders are so tense his arms don’t move freely. ’The bullying stopped. Kids were so shocked by Carl dying, they didn’t think about it any more. And the school was telling everyone to be supportive of each other, so they did. They left him alone, and he stopped being an asshole. He started talking again, and apologised to people for the way he was before. He made friends. He was no more outspoken or rude than any other kid his age. He was good around the house, he didn’t act out, and he worked really hard even though he didn’t have to. Our parents weren’t scared any more. Everything was good.’

‘Why do you think that was?’

‘Jesus, Sherlock. You’ve told me he killed someone when he was just a kid. Give me a minute to think about it.’

‘All right. But you don’t have to, it’s obvious.’

‘Is it.’

‘Yes. He made himself the perfect son, and student, and friend. Not the weird kid everyone hates, who’s too smart, and gets bullied. He gave himself a starring role in the stage production of his own life.’

‘That’s ridiculous. No one could keep that up for four years.’

Sherlock pulls a faint _oh please_ expression but he’s not really thinking about it, his brain clicking over and over and over. ‘It’s easier when it becomes second nature. Even easier when no one’s looking for it. It would have been simple to fool you all because you _wanted_ him to be nice, and no one could blame you. Who in their right mind would rock that boat?’

‘Sherlock-‘

His mind is pulling the scene they’re playing apart, as his mouth moves on. The way David’s hands pulled back, and the eyes, those _eyes-_ ‘In the event of any suspicions being raised about Carl, he didn’t want people looking his way. He became invisible; a murderer hiding in plain-‘ and last night, those fingers rippling a rhythm over his knee. Had he thought he was alone, or did he know he wasn’t? ‘-sight.’

Sherlock’s heart is throbbing in his throat. David looks at him with what appears to be concern. He looks back, searching the face that has haunted him for years, looking for evidence of…something. He doesn’t know what. Except he does.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘…nothing. Sorry. Bad memory.’

‘Of Jim?’

‘I don’t know.’

David looks doubtful, and blinks. Then he stands up and turns around to switch one of the electric rings on, placing a steamer pan of broccoli over the heat. Sherlock feels his pulse begin to ease. It’s less stressful when he doesn’t have to look at that face, but his mind is running at two hundred miles an hour, even if he knows he’s being stupid. Jim’s dead. He saw him die. Missing him afterwards - because he does; he can finally admit he does - is no excuse for tormenting the one link he left behind. 

‘I don’t know,’ he says again, ‘…if I did the right thing in coming here.’

David puts his hands on the edge of the sink. He’s still for a moment and then lifts himself, stretching his arms and shoulders in a clear bid to release tension. A train rattles past at the bottom of the garden, filling the room with incongruous sound, and negating all need to talk. Sherlock watches the cut lines of his back, aware that as David looks into the windows he’ll be able to see his face reflected behind him. He vaguely wonders what his expression is. There are fireworks in his head, exploding doubt and curiousity in equal measure, obscuring all the excuses he gave himself to come here in the first place. Mycroft was right; he doesn’t _need_ to be here. But he does want to be.

David settles back down on the balls of his feet. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you did.’

‘Are you?’

‘I’ve never been able to talk about him. It’s like I never had a brother. Even if I could, who’d believe me?’

Sherlock thinks of Euros. He thinks of all the ways she and Jim are, essentially, the same person. Looked at like that, he’s no more special than David here. The idiot sibling. He can relate to that even without a secret sister, thanks to Mycroft.

‘Are you gay, Sherlock?’

‘…I-

\- why?’

‘Because honestly, I find it hard to believe there wasn’t something going on with you two.’

Sherlock clears his throat, and perhaps his words come a little too fast in response. ‘There was nothing going on. I only met him a handful of times, every one of them under some kind of duress.’

David’s shoulders sag. Sherlock doesn’t give himself time to ponder what it means. ‘Besides, we were defined by distance. He was one side, I the other. Nothing could change that.’

‘But if you weren’t - if you were both just really clever, and he wasn’t trying to kill you, then-‘

‘It’s a pointless question. A hypothetical with no answer. We wouldn’t be the same people.’

David turns and leans against the sink, his hands holding the counter edge to either side of him. It’s an open posture. Sherlock can’t decide if he’s trustworthy, or if he’s showing himself to be trustworthy by design, or showing himself off. Or, potentially, just standing in a way that’s comfortable for him. He avoids making a decision by looking away.

‘Why are you asking?’

‘I don’t know. Curious. He never got married, never talked about a girlfriend or boyfriend. He was promiscuous as hell when he was young, but I never saw him with the same person twice. The only person he seemed interested in was you.’

The bitterness is heavy in his voice. And he’s…different. There’s an edge of anger in the way he’s not looking away, and he’s blinking like he’s got a headache, eyes narrowed against the light. Sherlock watches him, and doesn’t know how to answer, except with the truth as he understands it.

‘It wasn’t sexual.’

‘Everything with him was sexual.’

‘Not this.’

David looks him up and down, not moving.

‘What do you mean, then? ‘Defined by distance?’

‘I mean-‘ 

God, what does he mean? He’s never tried to make his thoughts on this exact. He can’t, because nothing about it _is_ , and that’s part of what makes it so great. But David's waiting; he said he wanted answers, and Sherlock feels he owes him that. It’s just the more he tries to find words, the less he wants to talk about it.

‘Jim and I couldn’t…there was no way we could ever have just spent time in a room together, like this. He hated me too much. Every word out of him was a threat of some sort.’

David’s eyes shift back and forth between Sherlock’s, holding his gaze but looking for something too. Sherlock lets him.

‘But it was never without consent. You might think he forced me to get involved. He didn’t. He simply offered a game, and I chose to play. I couldn’t not.’

‘You said he put a bomb on someone. That’s force.’

‘No. It’s incentive.’

‘…what?’

‘To me, at the time, it was incentive. A way to gauge who won or lost each round. There wasn’t just one bomb in our opening salvo. He knew how to get my attention, he knew what I wanted, he knew what I liked. I was happy to play. And then we met, and-‘

What a meeting it had been. What a thrill, to feel the pull of that mind. To stand fifty feet, twenty, ten, three, from someone who knew him that well, went to all this trouble, just for the chance to stand opposite a man and look into his eyes, and _know_ you’ve met your equal.

David snorts quietly, derisive. Sherlock looks at the floor.

‘Yeah, there was nothing going on with the two of you.’

 

*

 

Dinner is quiet. It’s delicious too, and Sherlock finds he’s hungry, working steadily through a large bowl of beef stew, with steamed broccoli and sweet potato wedges. Normal people might discuss innocuous things at this point; take the time to fill in the spaces with polite enquiries. Instead, they think about Jim. Sherlock can’t know what memories David’s calling up, though he suspects he might have returned to the murder of Carl Powers. For him, it’s the rooftop of Bart’s. It always is, isn’t it? The one meeting where there was no distance left between them, where they finally came together. Became one, in a way.

Everyone thinks Jim violated him, manipulated him. Mycroft might understand it a little differently, but he still sees Jim as nothing but a criminal, albeit exceptional at his job. John would - and has - pointed out that Sherlock was forced into the game, because Jim used violence against others to make him play.

But there is violence against others every single day, of one kind or another. Sherlock feels no need to involve himself in it. He chooses the cases that are _interesting_ , and that’s all Jim had to do to bring him to the other side of the chess board. He offered a match, and Sherlock said yes. And he tried to explain to John once, briefly, that it was all done with consent. Jim never touched him. They never entered each other’s space, until that last meeting. They existed in the beautiful, non-boring realm of possibility, where they could have been anything and neither of them knew what, so it was always, endlessly, fascinating. They didn’t sully it with definitions, or touch, or normality. It was perfect.

And then it was over. Jim had to win. He gave a gift too, leaving it as a glorious unknown. The only problem is that it’s ceased to be a thing of beauty, simply because he misses it too much. He has come down off the pedestal of cold, hard, logic, and found himself to be a man after all. A man who regrets not even noticing what _what if?_ could have been, until it was lying in broken pieces on the floor, with a gun still smoking in its hand.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you miss him?’

‘Yes.’

David’s fork knocks against the edge of his bowl. Sherlock blinks from his thoughts. 

‘That message was for you, wasn’t it? It looked like he was asking the country, but it was for you.’

‘It wasn’t him.’

‘Looked like him.’ 

David’s tone is bitter again. Sherlock doesn’t blame him. He can’t imagine what trouble that would have caused, three years after the press attention had mostly died down. Not to mention the lawyers would take it as proof of life, and further hold up his estate. David might not care, but it’s a level of bureaucracy he’ll have to deal with.

‘Yes all right, it was him. But he’s still dead. He recorded it before he died.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can’t tell you that, but please trust me. It’s not the only message he left. He gave me one last game to play, after his death.’

The silence goes on for a long time, and Sherlock only becomes aware of it when he picks up his glass of water, and sees the look on David’s face. It’s black. Mutinous. He’s holding his knife and fork too tight. Sherlock replays his words, and internally curses.

‘That was insensitive of me.’

‘No. It was insensitive of _him_. Of course he’d be more interested in you, though. Nothing new there. I wouldn’t expect anything else.’

‘It can’t be nice. I do appreciate that.’

David shrugs like it doesn’t matter. It’s a tight gesture that conveys concisely just how much it’s always mattered. And Sherlock thinks of Euros, so far above the world, unable to tell the difference between screaming and laughter. Not caring about the difference, until she realised that everything she felt was pain.

A question jumps into his mouth, and is out before he can think about it. ‘Do you think he knew himself?’

David blinks once, slowly. Sherlock’s not even sure what he means by it, because he already knows the answer. But he knew Jim in ways other people didn’t. 

‘I think he knew himself too well. Isn’t that why he put a gun in his mouth?’

‘You think he couldn’t live with knowing everything.’

A muscle jumps in David's jaw. ’I think he wanted friends when he was five. I think he came here to see me before he died because I’m his brother, even though that never meant anything to him before. I think he hated that he couldn’t find a way to care, even though he knew that if he did, he’d be like everyone else.’

‘But he came. So he did care.’

‘No. He was trying to, but he never could.’

Sherlock looks down at his empty bowl. The fingers of his right hand twitch in memory of that touch against them. He sees those eyes, open, and wide, and soft; nearly crying, full of gratitude. _You’re me_. _Thank you, Sherlock Holmes._

His throat constricts, burning with the knowledge that on that rooftop, it was still about the game for him. But it was more than that for Jim, and he hadn’t seen it. If he had, he might have known what he was planning to do. Even now, he’s not sure he would have tried to stop him. He thinks he probably would, because that’s what people do. It would have been cruel though, wouldn't it? Jim wanted to die. He was doomed years before they met.

‘If it makes any difference, he was…content, at the end.’

‘Content? How-?’

Sherlock doesn’t look up when David cuts off, and can surmise it’s the expression on his own face that makes him stop. He tries to school it into neutrality, because the man should be able to ask these questions without being afraid of causing hurt. This whole meeting should be about him, Jim’s flesh and blood, and instead David is making allowances for a stranger. He can’t even tell him that Jim found his connection in his last moments, because that would just make it worse.

‘Where are your parents?’

‘Dead. Car accident when I was twenty.’

Sherlock frowns, and David huffs a tiny, humourless laugh that shudders a touch when he breathes back in. ‘Yeah, thanks for making me wonder if that was him, too.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He really is. ‘Do you think it’s likely?’

‘Yes? I don’t know. He never liked them. He was furious they couldn’t send him to a primary school that would actually teach him something. I don’t think he ever forgave them for not taking him out of high school when he was bullied. But he never told them how it made him feel, so I don’t see how it was their fault.’

‘Did he tell you?’

‘Of course not. But he didn’t need to. I was there.’

Sherlock doesn’t point out that yes, he was there, and he’s still here. Jim could have killed him too, if he was that angry. He does think about saying it, but David has his eyes closed and air rasps over slightly parted lips. Enough talking about death, then. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told him about Carl. Perhaps he should go, but he _can’t_. There has to be a safer subject, and he casts around for something innocuous.

‘Were you all still in England when he went to university?’

‘Yeah. Our grandmother had a stroke when we were young, and passed on when he was fifteen. She left Ma her house. It was just sitting there in Dublin, so when he went to Trinity they let him move in. I used to go and stay, sometimes. I was in Nottingham for uni, but I’d go back to see my mates in the holidays. He acted like it was an inconvenience, but it was all right.’

‘You didn’t see him working?’

‘I saw him _studying_ , but that’s not what you mean, is it?’ David shakes his head, just a little bit too quickly. ‘No, there were no gangsters or hoodlums hanging out in the kitchen. Just endless books, his telescope in the attic, and piles and piles of electronic stuff. He was always building computers. He showed me how, once.’

Sherlock thinks of the computer back at the ticket office. If he was shown in the nineties, it’s a skill he’s kept up. Not that it’s very difficult these days.

‘Did he build anything else?’

‘Yeah, all sorts of things. I don’t know what most of them were. He liked computer games, until he decided they were boring, then I think he started designing his own. What else do you want to know? He liked playing the piano, and of course he was really fucking good at it. He was in the theatrical society at Trinity. He could have been an actor, he was exceptional, but he thought it was pointless. He wrote stories. He went through a phase of shagging anything that moved. He took drugs for about six months-‘ 

David’s eyes are glazed, the words coming too fast.

‘-and one night he fell onto my bed when I was reading, off his face on acid, and kissed me. I think he thought I was someone else. _You_ , probably. He used to disappear for weeks at a time. I saw his passport. He’d been in Eastern Europe, all over it. I thought he did it on purpose to fuck with me, because he knew I wanted to travel. I smacked him in the face because where the hell did he get the money? He laughed. He just _laughed_ , and called me pathetic. He-‘

‘David-‘

‘-always took everything. I came to visit with a girl one Christmas, and he waited ’til I came in from the pub and let me catch them fucking on the living room floor. He told me he was doing me a favour. Maybe he was. I tried boys, and when he found out he took them too. He thought it was _funny_. And now you. Now _you’re_ here. I thought it was over. I thought-‘

Shit. Sherlock’s hand hovers over his arm, touching the anger coming off him, riding the invisible weight of it but unable to push through. David’s not seeing him, but it feels wrong to touch. Not because of his condition, but because…because he and Jim never touched. Not until it was right.

‘Don’t.’

His fingers curl in, like a dying leaf on an autumn branch. He sits back slowly. David’s face is set, his jaw a rigid line of fury but already starting to crumble. He’s not going to make it either, Sherlock realises. He’s just not.

‘You’re not him. You don’t have to live as a reaction to him, either. I did for a while, and I know it’s not fun. I can’t imagine how it must be for you, having it all your life.’

‘He made everything a reaction to him.’

‘But more, for me and you. It was personal.’

‘Yeah. Except you, I understand. You’re like him. You’d give him something. What the hell did I ever do?’

David puts his face in his hands. Sherlock watches, and knows that it’s partly out of concern, and partly to see if there’s a repeat of the gesture from earlier. He doesn't know if he wants there to be, but he does know how to answer this question.

'It was envy.’

David snorts behind his hands. ‘No.’

‘Yes. You might not be a genius, but you had friends. You weren’t bored every second of your life. Everything didn’t come easy. For someone like him, who revelled in his difference, it must have been conflicting. It’s probably why he tried to take everything from you.’

‘And he succeeded. He keeps succeeding, even after he’s dead.’

‘He’s gone now.’

‘He’ll never be gone.’

‘No. David. I promise you. He’s _gone_.’

David lets his hands fall away. His eyes are wet, and it’s an incongruous sight. Even Jim never managed actual tears, even in his most emotional moment. ‘How do you know?’

‘The final game he left me. He…signed off, for want of a better phrase. It’s over.’

‘For you. I’m forty-two years old, stuck with OCD, and can’t go near another person because I know he’s going to jump out of the shadows and take them. It’s over for _you_.’

It’s hard to argue with that, but he has to try for both their sakes. He leans in just a little, not enough to push into David’s personal space. ‘I mean, he won’t be back. If you - if both of us - can put him to rest, then we’ll be able to get past him.’

‘...that’s why you came. You want him out of your head.’

‘…yes. And no. I don’t mean I want to forget him, because how could I? Just…stop him living in me.’

David’s hands are shaking. He stares and stares, water brimming in his eyes and then dropping down his cheeks. He’s white, and gaunt, and it’s like a veneer of tiredness has been stripped away, leaving naked pain behind. Sherlock feels he could reach out and touch, and it would be like sandpaper on a raw nerve. And he's blinking again, breathing too hard, his eyes narrowing like there's a loud noise bothering him, one only he can hear.

‘You want to kill him again.

…you can’t kill him again, Sherlock. You can’t just let him go.’

‘Why not? Why shouldn’t we? He didn’t do us many favours. A dead man can’t stop two living, just because he’s _interesting_.’

David jerks. His whole body moves, like he’s had an electric shock. His eyes go out of focus, he shakes his head and doesn’t stop, too fast, like this is an idea his mind just refuses to wrap around. Sherlock decides to hell with proper and reaches for him, but David snatches his arm away, and gasps his breath in.

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for upsetting you. I think we should stop now. We’re not doing any good.’

David makes a noise in the back of his throat. It’s pure distress, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of it. Though he does realise, with absolute certainty, that he needs to find David a psychiatrist. Perhaps even tonight.

…damn it, this is not what he wanted to cause. He didn’t intend it to go this way. He didn’t _think_. 

‘David, take a deep breath for me. Please. It’s going to be okay.’

‘It’s not.’ The words are a desperate whisper. ‘It’s not. You don’t understand. You can’t kill him, Sherlock. Not _you_.’

‘You’re right, I don’t understand. But you need to calm down. David, please-‘

And then he's laughing.

It bursts out of him like a lightning strike. It’s manic, and bright, shining through tears and teeth; his face splits wide and Sherlock's world tilts on its axis, rattling like turbulence on a plane, like distortion on a TV screen, like a note pinned to a dead man’s chest. He jerks back, blood freezing in his veins as he tries to pull away from the sight of Jim Moriarty in a kitchen chair, rocking towards him, laughing in his face. 

‘You _idiot_. You don’t understand.’

‘Stop it. _David_. Stop it.’

David stops. 

He blinks once, slow. His smile reaches back to his ears, pure malevolent glee. All trace of anger is gone, and he stretches his neck to one side, as smooth and precise as a snake getting ready to strike. The room tilts further and starts to spin, a sickening carousel of bright light on tiles, darkness outside the windows, those eyes and that smile. Sherlock forces himself to swallow. If David’s having some kind of mental break, it’s not abnormal for him to try and unnerve him this way. Of course he’d know his brother’s tics. He’s been living with them forever.

‘I’m sorry I lied to you, Sherlock. I just wanted you to stay and talk.’

His voice though. Sherlock shuts his eyes. Jim’s voice, flat and cold. He knows if he looks, David will be staring.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The last train went an hour ago. ‘fraid you’re stuck here for the night, my dear. With _me_.’

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

Jim.

But no, of course it’s not Jim. That’s impossible. Sherlock stands so fast his chair clatters into the wall, his chest heaving, hands balling into fists. Jim - _David_ \- looks up at him, a picture in studied calm, a smile curling the edges of his lips.

He has to get a grip. He has to take back control.

‘David, I know this has been hard. I didn’t realise…I didn’t think it through properly. Don’t let him do this to you. Don’t _lose_ yourself.’

‘There’s nothing to lose. It’s a game I won a long time ago. But you know that, Sherlock. You were there.’

‘ _Stop_ it.’

It’s just another mind game, played out through someone else. Sherlock realises he wouldn’t put it past Moriarty to have planned this; to know that eventually he’d come looking for answers, and program his brother to toy with him. One mention of his name as an adult, after a lifetime of silence? Seems convenient. A nudge in the right direction, at the exact time they were all over the news and David’s life was being broken into pieces because of it. He’d have been susceptible, wouldn’t he? 

David stands up. He’s wearing a blue shirt and he tugs it down, straightening it with Jim’s sharp _snap_ , exactly as he did in Baker Street. His eyes are wide and unblinking; deep, empty, with reserves of anger swirling below. If it’s a performance, he deserves a prize. Sherlock can’t see anything but Jim.

‘Please stop it.’

‘You want me out of your head, Sherlock? You’re going to kill me all over again? You can’t. Only I can do that. My life isn’t yours to throw away-‘ 

He steps in. Sherlock steps back, cold sweat breaking out behind his ears.

‘-and I’m not done with you yet.’

‘Get out of his head. It’s not fair.’

‘ _Fair?_ Don’t talk to me about fair. Is it _fair_ that you get a family of geniuses, and I was stuck on my own? What’s _fair_ about that? And who cares anyway? None of it matters. It’s only a game, Sherlock. We’re all going to die. Everything’s going to die. Why not play?’

‘David-‘

‘ _You_ stop it.’

‘I won’t. Jim’s dead. David, listen to me. He blew his brains out, I was there, I saw it. He’s _dead_.’

He’s not getting through. If he goes for his phone and David reacts badly, there isn’t enough space to defend himself. He doesn’t want to hit him. He doesn’t want to hurt him. He…

…lashes his left hand out to the side, and knocks his glass of water over. It falls inwards, pushing the coaster askew and the empty bowl off the centre of its mat.

David blinks. 

Sherlock waits, holding his breath until it aches in his chest. David goes to say something, then falters. He blinks again, faster this time, and the fingers of his left hand start to curl inward, nails digging into his palm. 

‘David.’

He whispers it. There’s a war going on in front of him and if Sherlock prayed, he’d do it now, waiting for him to fall the right way. David’s head vibrates on his neck, pulled this way and that by the misfiring neurones in his brain, perfect order versus perfect chaos, and Sherlock doesn’t know which one is true so he can’t predict which one will win.

‘Sherlock.’

‘ _David_.’

He’s shaking his head properly now, almost frantic. But then…his shoulders slump. A wave of fatigue sweeps through the lines of his body, and Sherlock nearly takes hold of him to make sure he doesn’t fall. David steps back before it’s necessary, his hands jerking at the backwash of adrenaline.

And then he turns on his heel, sits down, and starts righting the mess on the table.

Sherlock breathes out. Relief burns through him, thundering blood in his ears. He stands and watches for a minute, the room righting itself slowly, angles sliding back into their proper perspective. And when they’re settled, he fetches a dishcloth and starts mopping up the few millimetres of water the glass had left to spill. David’s hands are trembling, and his eyes flit back and forth as if reading a book in his head, racing through to finish the story and find out how it ends.

Sherlock wrings the cloth out at the sink, and folds it neatly. David works at putting things straight, not seeming to care he’s being watched, or why. Sherlock’s not often at a loss for words or without a plan for how to proceed, but he hasn’t got a clue what to do now. The man needs help, but he doubts very much he’ll allow it. He could get Mycroft to have him sectioned, but how would that be fair? Lock him up in a psych ward because he was pushed passed ordinary limits? He’s had a lifetime of putting up with other people pushing him aside, and anyway, Sherlock won’t do that unless the circumstances are more extraordinary than this. It’s not like he was violent.

He sits down, and folds his hands together on the table-top. 

‘Has that happened before?’

David’s hands stop. They still tremble, but don’t otherwise move. He shakes his head.

‘I won’t pretend I know what to say. I’m not a psychologist. But I do think you’d benefit-‘

A laugh rips through the air. Sherlock winces, but at least it’s not Jim’s laugh. He would never sound that broken.

‘You think I - a shrink? No. No.’ He’s shaking his head again. ‘No. And say what? My brother was a murderer, and I can’t get him out of my head? That it feels like he killed me years ago? Boring.’

‘They’d help.’

‘I don’t want their help. I’m not hurting anyone.’

‘You’re hurting yourself.’

‘So what? It doesn’t matter. Drop it.’

He wants to tell him he can get him seen by government people, people sworn to the highest secrecy. But more pressure in this moment would not be helpful. He sits quietly instead, the minutes ticking by in silence, waiting until David is finally satisfied that everything’s in order, and lets his hands fall away from the table.

‘I’m tired.’

‘Yes. Go to sleep. I’ll-‘

‘You can’t leave.’

‘…I really shouldn’t stay.’

‘Why, will people _talk?_ You can’t leave, you know you can’t.’

And it’s true. He can’t walk out on a man who may be in the midst of a breakdown. He caused this by coming here, and even if leaving David alone is the kindest option, it may not be the safest one.

‘I’ll sit down here. I won’t leave until morning, if that’s what you want.’

Another shake of the head. ‘I’ll make up the spare room. You can’t stay down here, that sofa’s awful.’

‘There’s rea-‘

But David’s gone before he can tell him it’s pointless, that he won’t sleep now anyway. Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and exhales until his lungs complain. He has no idea what that was, but it looked real. It seemed like he really thought he was Jim. He _was_ Jim for a few seconds, and it was terrifying in a completely new way; not that he was here, but that he wasn’t. Jim may have inspired fear, and uncertainty, and excitement, but he was always in control of himself. David could have done anything for those few moments, thinking he was off the leash. He could do anything tonight. But he can’t be left alone with all these reawakened memories, all the new information and…whatever _that_ was. Maybe he’ll feel better once he’s slept.

Sherlock steps outside for a cigarette. He smokes it with his back pressed flat to the garage wall, letting the brick provide stability in a night that has stopped making any kind of sense. This is what dealing with emotions brings. If this were a case he’d come in, get the facts, and leave. Everything else would be irrelevant. But it’s the irrelevancies that matter here, and somehow they have to fit together to form if not a cohesive answer, then enough of one to let him rest easy. At this point, he has no idea how to make that happen. All he can do is focus on the minutes in front of him, and deal with them one by one. 

He lets the cool air chill him down after his cigarette is finished, then marshals himself and goes back into the house. David’s still in the bedroom so he walks to the stairs, and calls up.

‘David, I can do that, don’t trouble yourself.’

‘It’s done.’ He appears at the top, his hair flopping down over his forehead. ‘Bathroom’s yours. Help yourself to the shower if you want, I’ll be down here a while.’

‘I can clean up dinner.’

‘ _No_. Thank you. I have to do it.’

Right. Of course. Sherlock steps aside to let him pass, watching him all the way down. David doesn’t look at him. His eyes are without light, entirely empty, and in the shadowed living room the circles under them are darker and more pronounced than ever. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. David stops at his shoulder. For a long, long moment, they just stand.

‘How did you get that scar on your chin?’

David stares at nothing. Then he looks up, right into Sherlock’s eyes, a gap of six inches between them.

‘He gave it to me. So people would never mistake me for him.’

His face is set, utterly neutral. Sherlock gazes at him and, for reasons that are not clear in his mind, hears the words _I. Owe. You._

He swallows, and nods. ‘I am sorry.’

David looks away. He’s very still. Then he just says, ‘good night’ and keeps right on going.

 

*

 

Sherlock’s phone casts a bright light in the darkness, until it dims, getting ready to sleep. He touches the screen to wake it back up, and leaves his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’d considered John, but - much as he loves him, and is so relieved they’re friends again - John’s never understood the thing with Jim. He understood that like was drawn to like, but could never look past the crimes.

Mycroft though, understands. He doesn’t _like_ it, but there’s nothing about it that’s a mystery to him. He’s been dealing with Euros for years on his own. Nothing in this realm could surprise him. Except, perhaps, a text from his brother, asking for help on behalf of _Jim’s_ brother. Would he understand that? Possibly. From an objective point of view; a sort of world-weary, ‘I don’t see the need, but the little people go in for this sort of thing all the time, so _fine_ ’. 

The screen goes dim again, and he lets it fade to black. If he asks Mycroft, he’ll have to tell him why. If he does that, David will never be free of surveillance again, which will probably kill him. If he doesn’t mention the mental break - and it was only a _small_ one, surely? Sherlock’s had worse delusions than that when he’s been high - then Mycroft will just leave him to a normal therapist. If he would ever agree to go to one at all, which seems unlikely. For some reason, David seems to feel he, if not deserves what Jim’s done to him, then certainly doesn’t deserve to avoid it. Sherlock understands that. He understands it far too well.

He turns over on the bed that’s a little too short for him, but comfortable nonetheless. The spare room is warm, and smells of dust because David put the radiator on and the heat is blowing it into the air. He’s had no choice but to strip to his underwear, and borrow the T-shirt laid out for him on the duvet. He can’t keep his jeans on, it’s too stuffy. It’s too quiet, with only an occasional car passing on the road at the end of the driveway; it’s too _dark_ , with only one streetlight out on the pavement, casting the faintest of orange glows towards the window. David came upstairs eighty-six minutes after Sherlock got out of the shower, and spent another hour cleaning the bathroom. Another forty-five minutes before the light under his door went out. No wonder he’s always tired.

Sherlock puts his phone down. He stares at the wall, and returns to the scene in the kitchen. David really had thought he was Jim. For a few seconds, so had Sherlock. He really had _looked_ like him, and he wishes he could pretend it wasn’t exciting, but it would be a lie. Thinking about it makes something go tight in his gut, and his brain light up in eagerness. Jim was always the ultimate _what if?_ It would only ever be a disaster, whatever ‘it’ was, but it would have been spectacular too. People would get hurt, so many people, but-

…he shoves the thought away. He’s past the time of pretending not to care whether people get hurt because of him. Yes, he’s still objective; yes, he’s still rude; yes, he is still careless with the feelings of strangers. But wilfully hurtful, especially to those closest to him? No. He’s learned his lesson there. There’s no point wasting time on what could have been, in a world where Jim was less bad, and he was less good, or if their paths had never crossed as children. If Euros had never killed Victor and Jim had never killed Carl. If he had never met John. All those things happened. They will always have happened.

And Sherlock missing the devil in the darkness? That’s a thing that happened too, is happening, will always have happened. But there’s nothing he can do about it. David is not Jim. David deserves better than to _be_ Jim. He should be his own man, and if there’s no one else to help him do that, then it’ll have to be Sherlock Holmes. 

A door opens out on the landing. Six quiet footsteps, and the bathroom door pushes open. He hopes for David’s sake he doesn’t have to clean the whole room every time he uses it. And it appears not, because there’s only the sound of a glass being filled with water and then the laundry hamper being closed after the sink has been wiped down. Sherlock lies still as the footsteps return along the landing, and he waits to hear David’s door close behind him.

It doesn’t. Sherlock counts thirty seconds off; once, and then twice. Then there’s a telltale rustle of cloth, and he knows he’s waiting out there, he knows David knows he’s not asleep.

The wooden frame of the bed creaks as he gets up. He takes the time to put his jeans back on. Then he opens the door, spinning possibilities through his mind, deciding which one is most likely to apply to this situation. But they all stop when he sees David leaning in the doorframe of his bedroom, with messy hair and a glass of water in his hand.

He’s not looking towards Sherlock. His room is a diagonal line away, further up from the bathroom. They’re separated by eight feet of darkness in which anything could lie, but there are lights coming in from the back window that throw David’s face, his naked chest, into sharp relief. Half of him, the half closest to Sherlock, is hidden in shadow. The other is all definition and blur; the lines of every muscle both heightened by grey light, and softened by it. 

But it’s his eyes that catch Sherlock, and hold him in place. Inevitably. Even with his head rolled away, they’re two black dots in a half-white face, unreadable, and yet the conveyors of all hate, all rage, all despair. They’re Jim’s eyes, and at three in the morning after a trying two days, Sherlock can’t bring himself not to imagine him standing there. Something seems to settle inside him when he admits it. It’s David, but it _could_ be Jim, couldn’t it? If things were different.

‘Have you figured out why you came, yet?’

There’s so much resignation in that voice. He sounds so much like him.

‘I don’t know. I just wanted answers.’

‘But that’s not all you wanted.’

‘Maybe not.’

David nods, with his head still half-turned away. He looks like Jim did when Sherlock arrived on the roof, when he said _and in the end it was easy. It was easy_ ; he’d closed his eyes and he looked like this, like he could no longer bear the weight of the world pressing him down. Sherlock had watched it happen, and not known what it meant. But he does now, and he’ll let him speak, just like he let Jim speak. He says nothing.

‘Some people pretend they don’t have siblings, don’t they? When they don’t like them, or when something bad happens.’ Sherlock can only nod. Yes. Of course, they do. But David’s not looking at him, and doesn’t see it. ‘I used to pretend I had a brother.’ He looks down at the glass in his hand. ‘I used to pretend he was always there, and always looking out for me. He wasn’t like me, and he didn’t understand, but he tried to look after me in his own way.’

‘David-‘

His head pulls around, rolling on the edge of the frame. It’s impossible to read his expression with the shadow and distortion, but the speed of movement suggests surprise. Or anger, or a jolt back to reality. Sherlock can’t tell, and he realises he still doesn’t have anything to say. He just looks at him and David looks back, right up until the moment when he pushes out of his lean, puts his glass down, and crosses the space between them.

Sherlock is glad of the wall at his back. It’s unnerving, that figure approaching and appearing out of the darkness. Half-dressed too, wearing only soft pyjama pants, and when he comes to rest he’s far, far too close.

‘You said you and he were defined by distance.’

‘Yes.’

‘Always?’

‘Not at the very end. We…shook hands, before he died.’

David nods, looking up into his eyes. Sherlock can’t look away, even if it’s harder to see anything with so little space between them. His T-shirt is almost brushing David’s skin, and he can feel the warmth of him reaching out to press against his own. 

‘Tell me why you came.’

‘I thought I had.’

‘Curious, you said. And then you said, maybe I had questions.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then you said, you felt you owed him this.’

‘…yes.’

Up close, David’s eyes are huge. He can’t see the pupil in them, no line between brown and black, and only smudges of grey at the sides. But he can feel the man alive behind them, just like he would look into Jim’s and get sucked into the vortex of that great mind clicking away an inch or two under the surface.

‘And then you said you wanted to stop him living in you.’

Sherlock doesn’t move. He barely breathes. David just stands, too close, waiting. There’s not a sound, inside or out, to distract him. The silence is so loud it has a buzz of its own.

‘Is that what you want?’

‘I don’t know.’ It’s barely more than a whisper. ‘He’s gone. I want to stop thinking about him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because-‘ and God, he knows why, he just never wanted to admit it. ‘Because I miss it. He was the best game.’

‘It?’

‘…I- - please Davi-‘

‘You can say it. You already did. I don’t blame you. I miss him too.’

‘He kept trying to destroy me.’ But that only mattered a little bit, even at the time. Didn’t it? ‘I do miss him.’

David nods, a slight movement mostly obscured by the darkness. His right hand comes up, and Sherlock’s breath hitches in the back of his throat; not because it touches but because it doesn’t. It hovers at his left shoulder for just a second, as if David thought of touching and then didn’t, can’t, because it was never part of the game, was it? They didn’t violate those borders, except the one time Sherlock did and held him over the roof, driven by the need to try and halt an unstoppable force. And he’d just taken it, just stood there and let him, and Sherlock had to let him go because touching was not in the rules.

David, he thinks. _David_. Not Jim. And the hand falls away before contact, just as he knew it would.

‘Tell me why you really came.’

Sherlock closes his eyes. He shakes his head. No, he can’t. He can’t. 

‘Then let me give you a little extra incentive?’

Oh, _God_. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. He can’t have been so wrong.

‘No one’ll die if you don’t jump this time. I promise.’

It’s a whisper, a hair’s width from his lips. He can feel David’s breath brushing the fine hair below his nose, and there’s a knot pulling together at the base of his gut, dragging everything inwards and making his skin too small, so goosebumps break out and hair starts to raise at the back of his neck. 

‘Close the distance, Sherlock. Make him ordinary. Let him rest.’

It makes a horrible kind of sense. Horrible, and perfect. And Sherlock wants to let him rest, and he wants to be free of his ghost, but the last thing he wants is to make him ordinary. He hovers, torn, aware that David’s hands are pressing to the wall either side of his ribs, boxing him in; aware, too, that his hair smells clean and his skin is warm, that he’s a solid, living body half an inch from moulding itself to him; aware, painfully so, of the gathering tension between his legs just from having him this close.

‘It’s not fair.’ He whispers it, and David doesn’t step back. ‘On you.’

‘It’s what I want,’ he hears back, and almost breaks under the weight of truth in those four words. Maybe David wants what Jim wanted all those years, maybe this is his revenge. The step that Jim’s game, his mind, his sense of distance, would never allow him to take. Maybe it wouldn’t be fair to deny him, but that isn’t what he meant. It’s not fair, to use someone for your own peace of mind. It’s not fair, to kiss them and think of someone else.

It’s not fair, that after all Jim put him through, he’s not here to do this himself.

He opens his eyes. David’s breath strokes his lips. He could push forward, and Sherlock would not stop him. But that’s not the game, is it? That’s never been the game.

It’s not fair, he thinks, and regret stabs through his chest and twists in the hollow of his empty lungs. He gasps, and David twitches closer, and it’s all he needs in the end, the one little push that topples him off the edge. Air whistles past his ears, the world spins upside down, his stomach explodes into a million tiny wings. He falls, and falls, and falls, landing gently against the softness of the mouth waiting for him.

Breath shudders out of David at the first touch. They withdraw, millimetres between them that feel too far, staring into each other at point blank range. The one eye he can see is a black hole sucking Sherlock forward, but when they meet again he isn’t swallowed whole; just dragged into the gentle catch of lips that barely touch his top one, while he feathers underneath. The smallest brush; a tiny sun exploding under the barest contact. 

His throat is tight, thick, and when he feels a touch at the hem of his T-shirt everything tilts all over again, tensing in anticipation. David’s fingers are warm, soft as they touch the line of muscle low on his hip, a gentle stroke that has him moaning forwards, bringing their mouths together properly, making his hands come up and finally, finally, bury in the hair he’s been wanting to touch for more years than seems decent. It’s so soft. David’s chest heaves once, a silent sob, and then they’re crashing slowly together, tectonic plates compressing air and time between them. David’s tongue trembles against the side of his own, his palms sliding under his shirt to brush over his ribs; tentative, like he might get burned, testing the water until Sherlock shudders again. They become firm, holding him, feeling him, sliding around his back to grip and keep them crushed together. David’s so much smaller but he’s nothing but strong, all heat, and Sherlock’s being pulled under, drowning, held in deep, deep waters.

He jerks his head back with a gasp. David heaves a breath, his mouth against his neck. Sherlock has a handful of soft black hair, a ball of fire in the pit of his stomach, and no strength to resist when he’s walked backwards into the bedroom. He holds on as if letting go means death, his eyes closed and trying to breathe as David pushes his shirt up over his head, and tosses it onto the floor.

‘Tell me why you came.’

He shakes his head. He can’t. He just lets out a tiny noise as he slumps back to the bed, and David unfastens the button and zip of his jeans, pulling them down his hips. It’s all too much but nowhere near enough; he’s spent years telling himself he hasn’t thought of this; years insisting sex is stupid; years of Jim saying _you have a surprisingly comfortable bed_ , looking at him with those eyes, on his knees with a gun on his wet, pink tongue.

David’s tongue is on his body. Sherlock moans and arches, dragging one leg up the side of him, gripping his shoulder in a shaking hand. Tongue flicking around his navel, lips teasing the thin skin at the base of his abdomen, flaring his skin to life. It’s too much, it’s been too long, his cock already rigid and throbbing, straining upwards for touch.

‘Wait. I haven’t-‘

He looks down into two black gaps where eyes should be, his stomach touched by breath falling wet and fast from between David’s parted lips. The light from the distant street lamp glows off the planes of muscle on his back, shining off glossy black hair. He strokes through it and his breath hitches again as lips murmur across his stomach.

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘Yes. But not for…not for a really long time.’

He feels the nod more than sees it, and then David is bracing over him, lowering his hips so they’re almost touching. Pausing, Sherlock realises, so that…he puts his hands on him, and pushes his pyjamas down. David makes a noise so full of want that reservations crumble; they press together, lips grasping at each other, Sherlock pushing up to feel David solid and _real_ between his legs.

‘Me either. Me either, Sherlock. A really long time.’

Relief breaks through him. Time ceases to exist. The world narrows to the taste of warm skin under his lips, the gentle tang of salt as he sucks a mark into a defined collarbone, the terrible, beautiful agony of a stiff cock leaking in the crease of his thigh. He wraps his legs around him as they move restlessly together, hands everywhere, unable to stop kissing long enough to move on.

‘Sherlock-‘

It’s Jim’s voice, right before he said _bless you_. Sherlock’s fingers twist in his hair, earning him a tiny, desperate cry. The body against his is damp with sweat and need; hot, tacky, gasping against him. He squeezes his eyes shut against what he knows is coming.

‘Please tell me why you came.’

A drawer is opened to the side of his head. He tries to fight the clutch of heat and need pulsing at his centre, but it only gets stronger. He tries to speak as the top comes off a bottle, but words fall apart on his tongue as a wet, slippery finger pushes inside him.

‘Nng,’ he says, against one small flash of pain and a thunderbolt of pleasure, spreading his legs to get more.

‘Please.’

His cheeks are burning. Hair sticks to his forehead. His hips rock up, out of his control, played into rhythm by an experienced touch. Fingertips tease over his prostate, and resistance flares in him and dies, burnt to ash.

‘Thought you-‘

‘Please.’

‘Thought you might be him.’ Oh God, it’s too good. His head falls back, and he groans into the sticky air. ‘Christ, I’m sorry, I wanted you to be him.’

David’s hips jerk forward, shoving his cock against the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He hears a thin, desperate gasp, and for a second he thinks it’s over; thinks he’s ruined it, and looks up to beg forgiveness. 

But the man above him is not finished. He’s tense, and shaking, and his hand works lube over his cock, his eyes staring into Sherlock’s like he wants to burn himself into his brain. Sherlock’s chest sinks in a moment of longing, all air sucked from him, because…oh fuck.

‘Say it.’

It’s too much, he can’t. The only thing out of him is a small noise when he feels a thick nudge against him, asking permission. He spreads his legs wider, grabs a handful of backside and tries to pull him forward.

‘Say it.’

He’s waiting. It’s not _fair_. But just then, a car goes by on the road outside, its headlights on full beam. White light floods for the room for just a second, long enough to show his face, long enough to tell him everything he needs to know.

‘Jim.’

Brown eyes flutter shut. He thrusts forwards, and Sherlock bites his lip, and then cries out as he’s filled, _too much_ and _not enough_ , everything lost under pain and utter, overwhelming need.

‘Say it.’

‘Jim. Jim. Fuck _Jim_ , keep going.’

He finds a hand closing around his, twining their fingers, easing it back to lie by his head. It’s a soft gesture of connection that bursts pain through his chest, and heat through his centre. Jim takes him gently, rocking them together until he’s buried as deep as he can go and then still pushes for more, closer, closer, his knees spreading wide so he’s as close as he can be, battering them together softly, almost clumsy in his need to not let them come apart. Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think. It’s not so dark now he’s adjusted, or maybe he’s seeing what he wants to see; it’s Jim’s stare, Jim’s want, Jim’s quiet, desperate, needy moans as his hips roll and send them both spiralling into space.

‘Should never have gone away.’

Sherlock shakes his head. No. No, he shouldn’t. No, it’s too much to think about. No, don’t stop.

‘Sherlock. Oh fuck, _Sherlock_ -‘

He lowers his head until their lips touch. Sherlock feels his stomach rub softly against his aching length. It’s too gentle, it’s too good; he starts to buck upwards, moaning into his mouth, and then he’s got the full weight of this man on him, trapping his cock against firm, smooth heat, and Jim breaks the kiss so he can rest their foreheads together, their minds as close as they can be.

Everything vibrates to a halt. Sherlock breathes; breathes him in, gives himself in return. They’re not even moving and it’s still inevitable, a supernova in its final stage.

‘Say it,’ he hears, the whisper nothing more than a plea.

‘ _Jim_ ,’ he says, and there’s one tight thrust as wetness erupts between his legs; control flares out past his limits, sucking back in to explode out of him in one last, silent, moment of perfect connection. 

 

*

 

He should feel sick with himself. He does, kind of, feel sick with himself. Floating in the void afterwards, stroking the soft strands of damp hair at the back of David’s neck, letting him doze on his chest…he should feel a lot of things. But for now, there’s nothing. There are still hours until dawn, and nothing seems real. If he were asked, he could swear Jim Moriarty just came inside him, and he’d mean it. If someone pointed out it’s impossible, he’d nod and agree. It’s just that, for now, it doesn’t matter. It will, and very soon; he can feel the black thunderclouds of recrimination building at the borders of his mind. This was stupid and hurtful on so many levels. Irresponsible. Reprehensible. Weak.

But it feels so right. It did, at the time, feel right. It feels like Riley’s flat, John and Kitty yelling in the background, frantic with paper and proof, and he and Jim staring at each other in their world of silent recognition. Because Jim knew what he was doing, and he knew Sherlock knew what he was doing. They both knew it was awful. They both knew they loved it.

‘Say it.’

It’s whispered against his chest. Sherlock strokes the back of his head; his whole, unbroken, perfect head.

‘Jim.’

A sigh, that almost sounds content. And then silence.

 

*

 

He wakes up to an empty room. He’s not surprised, and is definitely grateful. A glance around shows that all clothes have been picked up, and folded perfectly on the chair. The bottle of lube is lined up on the nightstand, equal distance from the edges of one corner.

He looks at it for a long time. It hadn’t been in the drawer when he broke in, and searched the room. He taps the pad of his index finger against the edge of his thumbnail, then gets up, strips the bed, and takes a shower.

He won’t think about it. Not yet. Not with the evidence of last night still all over him; not with the weight of that body still heavy in his mind. _Say it_. 

He won’t say it.

He eats a bowl of cereal instead, and drinks a cup of tea. He washes everything up, dries it and puts it away. He notes, again unsurprised, that the coffee in the cupboard has been touched. It held a thin layer of dust yesterday, and one he was careful not to disturb. Now, it’s perfectly clean.

He shuts the front door behind him, and doesn’t worry about it being left unlocked. Those clouds of recrimination hover, but don’t quite infringe. He’ll chalk it up to a post-coital haze, and reminds himself to come back to them and get reprimanded later.

It’s cold again today, but perfectly blue and sunny. It’s almost a shame it only takes five minutes to walk to the station. Sherlock retrieves his laundry from the locker, and walks to the ticket counter. Tony is back on duty, this time _sans_ ketchup stain on his tie.

‘Morning, sir. Were you still interested in talking to the manager? ‘cause-‘

‘-he’s not here.’

‘…that’s right. How’d you - - oh, phoned the office, did you?’

‘Mm. Family emergency, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. No idea when he’ll be back.'

Sherlock nods, and buys a ticket back to London. The train’s due in twenty minutes. Just enough time for a fag, and a quick cup of tea in the cafe. He wanders out to the platform afterwards, and leans on the wall to wait.

David would run, of course. He probably planned to from the moment Sherlock turned up. There’s no way he’d subject himself to further scrutiny, not after the life he’s lived. He’s not just going to stay here and let Sherlock visit, under the pretence of…what? 

 _Say it_.

The train pulls into the platform, exactly on time. It’s a small thing that goes as far as Wolverhampton. Sherlock spends the journey staring over green fields and mid-sized towns, living in the touch of a forehead against his, and the downy softness of damp hair running through his fingers.

He changes trains, and settles into the peace of First Class. Tea, biscuit. The thunderclouds stay at the edges of his mind, a little thinner than they should be, prevaricating over whether to close in, or disperse. He leaves them be, and just rests. He doesn’t move his gaze from the window until his phone vibrates in his pocket, pulling him from the sky.

‘Are you back?’

‘Morning, Mycroft. I’m on the train.’

‘Right. Yes, well. Did you find what you were looking for?’

He doesn’t know how to answer that, but feels one corner of his mouth pull up anyway. He feels he should be more angry about the possibility of hope, because it’s exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

‘I’m not sure. But it was worth coming.’

‘I trust you’ll fill me in at your convenience. Tonight, if it suits.’

‘No, it doesn’t suit.’ He’s not going to share this yet. Not yet. ‘You can wait until tomorrow. Anyway, I told John I’d go and see Rosie.’

Mycroft sighs, but there’s not much heat to it. No more than token resignation. ‘Fine. I’ll clear a space in my diary. Anthea will text you the time.’

‘So nice to be a priority, brother mine.’

He rings off, smiling. It is, actually, nice to be a priority these days. But that’s hardly the point, and it doesn’t stop him humming to himself, twirling his phone in his fingers and then starting a text, purely because Mycroft hates texts.

_If you had to control perfect chaos, what would you use?_

He can feel the eye-roll on the other end, followed by sudden curiousity about the question, given the context of this trip. It’s only a minute before his screen flashes up the reply.

_Perfect order, I suppose. Why?_

Sherlock grins, and slips his phone into his pocket. He rests his chin on his hand and watches the world speed by at a hundred and sixty miles an hour, almost keeping up with his thoughts. Yes, maybe he would too, if he had to. Or had to pretend to. Or maybe that’s the only possible reaction when you’ve lived next to a bolt of lightning cased in human flesh. Or maybe…

_Say it._

He won’t say it. Not to himself, not to anyone. Not until he’s made to, by circumstance or necessity.

Or until he’s asked, in a soft breath whispered against his skin.

Not until then.

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [An Offending Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362827) by [WithTheKeyIsKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing)




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